Enter the Ranger
by Larner
Summary: How might Aragorn have chosen to return to his parents' people after learning his proper name, lineage, and possible destiny? Perhaps in this manner...
1. Prologue

**Enter the Ranger**

Prologue - Words of Hope

"My Lord Halbaleg—the sons of Elrond are newly come."

Halbaleg son of Dírhael looked at the one who'd entered the office where the current Steward of the Northern Dúnedain had been looking over reports of harvests throughout the lands his people inhabited. He'd left word he didn't wish to be interrupted—he hated going through such reports, and found that any interruption tended to distract him sufficiently that he'd not get back to them for many days, if at all. But certainly the coming of Elrond's sons was sufficient reason for those who served within his keep to disregard those instructions.

With a feeling of distinct relief he set the report from the region of Lhûn aside atop the other reports he'd not read as yet, and after placing a block of stone from Annúminas atop them so they shouldn't be caught by any stray drafts and blown about, he headed for the main chamber to the keep, in which he usually met with visitors and those come to consult with him as Steward.

Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris had come amongst the Dúnedain of the Angle rarely enough over the past five years, not since he'd learned that his sister's son had earned the right to ride out with the patrols from Elrond's home by managing to disarm one of the twins during a sparring match. Halbaleg was uncertain as to which of the twins had been so treated by young Estel, as the Elves named him, for neither would say as to which had lost his sword to the young Mortal who lived with them as if he were their younger brother. How he wished he'd been there at the time! How appalled they must have been to see one of them disarmed by the boy! Unconsciously he smiled at the images that the idea raised in his imagination. A great swordsman he'd prove, the son of his sister and her husband. Such a one he should prove as Chieftain of their people!

He found the two tall sons of Elrond standing side by side in the main chamber, each with a cup of wine in hand. He rejoiced that his wife had seen to it that they were offered some refreshment after their long ride from Rivendell.

"My lords, I welcome you again to my home. And how is your esteemed father?"

"He does well, Lord Halbaleg," responded one of them, although he had to admit that, unlike either Arathorn or Gilraen, he'd never learned how to discern which was which. "He sends you word: _Now is the time for the Lost to come forth._ He bids you to gather together those of your people whom you consider most necessary to receive new-found Hope, and have them meet on the eve of the summer solstice atop Amon Sûl. It is time, _Adar_ believes, for Hope to be restored to your people. Indeed, by restoring Hope to the Dúnedain we believe that it shall be restored to all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, south as well as north, east as well as west." So saying, he and his brother swallowed down the last of their drinks, and holding out their glasses for their shocked host to accept, they gave profound bows and departed as suddenly and unexpectedly as they'd come.

_Hope, hope to be restored to the Dúnedain? Did that mean…? It **must** mean that—that the boy would be returned to them! But was he ready? Were the Dúnedain ready for the return of Arathorn and Gilraen's son to their lands? Oh, but they must be!_

Clutching the glasses to his chest, Habaleg turned blindly to seek out his wife. She must be the first to know!


	2. Building on the Ruins

_Originally written for B2MEM prompt several years ago._

Building on the Ruins

A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins as Estel—nay, Estel no longer, now Aragorn son of Arathorn-breasted the crest of Amon Sûl in the wake of his uncle, Elrohir following after. Halbaleg son of Dírhael had served in the stead of the Chieftain of the northern Dúnedain since the death of Arathorn, who, so advised by the Council of Elders, had named the brother of his wife the Steward of Arnor (such as Arnor was in these latter days). Aragorn had seen the Man at least once a year since he and his mother were taken into refuge in the House of Elrond. Now he knew why: Halbaleg and his wife were two of the seven witnesses who knew the truth of the survival of the son of Arathorn and Gilraen, and who would stand for his identity before the rest of the remnant of the people of Elendil, Isildur, and Valandil.

It felt strange, to think of those names as being those of his own first forebears in this land. He had learned them well enough in his childhood lessons of the histories of Middle Earth. But to think of them as having been Men of flesh and bone such as his own, and from whom he himself was descended, and whose responsibilities were now become his own? How was it that the passage of a mere day—the day of his twentieth birthday—had so turned his world upside-down? Oh, he'd known that his _real_ father had been a Man and a Ranger, and one of nobility and responsibility. So he'd been assured by both his _naneth_ and his _adar_ often enough since his earliest years. But since the age of two, his few memories of the Man who'd once swung him confidently up upon his shoulder each time he returned from a patrol had grown vague indeed, and he'd never thought of him as the last Chieftain of the Dúnedain whose name he'd had to learn along with those of all who'd come before him, Chieftains and Kings.

He realized that his party had not been the first to arrive here. Others had been awaiting them, and now Men began to rise from where they'd been sitting in the grass. Nor were all of the tall shapes in the shadows remnants of statues and tumbled walls, he realized. At least four Men and two women had been standing there, leaning on spears or staves, and now for the first time stirred. One of the women at least he recognized—his Aunt Anneth, Halbaleg's wife, who'd come a few times to Imladris to see him, usually for the odd birthday celebration. The other—well, she reminded him of his mother, but older. And the look on her face—was it _hope_?

Aunt Anneth stepped forward, followed by a young Man who appeared near to his own age, his eyes measuring and uncertain as they met Estel's own. A few others also followed Aunt Anneth forward, each of whom he'd seen two or three times over the years. These came to flank him, and turned to face the rest who'd gathered here.

He felt Elrohir's hand upon his shoulder, familiar and comforting. And it was Elrohir's voice that rose to break the silence. "I come this day to return to the descendants of my _adar's muindor_ one of your own. Behold, today we return the one we have ever acknowledged as the Hope of your people as well as our own that the Darkness will once more be defeated. Indeed, such was his name when he dwelt with us as if he were son to our _adar _and our brother indeed, for the child's name bestowed upon him was _Estel_. As has been done with each of the Heirs of Isildur, he has been educated in the histories of Arda, in the ways of policy and judgment, of administration and leadership, in healing and warcraft. You will find him a canny tracker and hunter, and a paragon with sword and dagger. He speaks Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, and Adûnaic fluently, and is already skilled in the sifting of hearts. Five years has he ridden out with our patrols to fight the enemies of the Free Peoples, and he has proved himself well."

An elderly Man who stood by the older woman who resembled his own _naneth_ stepped forward, leaning upon the staff in his hand. "You say that this is my grandson, the son of my daughter Gilraen and her husband Arathorn?" he asked.

"Do you doubt my word, Lord Dírhael?" Elrohir responded.

"We all stand witness for him, Papa," said Uncle Halbaleg. "We agreed with the wisdom of Elladan and Elrohir that the Enemy has sought too assiduously to end the line of the ancient Kings. When he went comatose with the fever and it was believed that he'd died, we let that belief stand, and for his own protection as well as that of our people. It was not only grief at her husband's loss that took your daughter from us and into Elrond's house, you see."

The woman was smiling tremulously. "I certainly see our daughter's expression upon his face, husband! Aye, then I was right, and he was not taken from us forever! Welcome, Aragorn! Welcome home to your own people, Ari."

_Ari._ How familiar that dear-name was, in spite of being spoken to him only infrequently during his youngest years in his _adar's _house. He felt his lip work as he tried to put together long set-aside pieces of his past and history, tried to join them together with what he'd once thought of only as matters of study for study's own sake!

"And what is to be done with him?" demanded a big bear of a Man with the stance of a tried warrior.

Elrohir laughed easily. "Take him and train him well, Baerdion! He has learned all that we can teach him of our ways. Now it is time for your people to do the same.

"Ai—think of it this way: you all stand now in the ruins of Amon Sûl, the Watchtower of the Winds. I remember well when it stood as tall as Elendil built it. Well, this tower can be built anew upon the ruins of Elendil's own works, for his foundations still remain. And so it is for the Northern Dúnedain—Estel here, Aragorn the Valiant, shall become the cornerstone for the rebuilding of Arnor and its honor; and, we hope, will bring together North and South once more. No longer should there be a King with no kingdom here in the north and a kingdom with no King in Gondor."

Considering the weight of uncertainty he saw in so many faces, Aragorn was feeling a most inadequate cornerstone indeed.

Then he realized that the only young Man in the company, the one who'd followed his Aunt Anneth and who must be her son, hers and Uncle Halbaleg's, perceived his uncertainty and was beginning to feel sympathy for him. He turned his attention back to him, and searched his face, those eyes as grey as his own, and suddenly he felt reassured he could indeed find a place among these people. He smiled-

And the youth, obviously surprised, looked back, his mouth first in an _O_ of startlement, then his eyes growing warmer as he began to return that smile.

He felt Elrohir's hand squeeze his shoulder for a moment, and then his brother loosed him. Aragorn swallowed. He was now deemed ready, he realized, to fly on his own. He took a step forward….


	3. The Elven Princeling

_Written for the LOTR Community Character Study challenge. For Radbooks, Awallen, Erulisse, and Aliana for their birthdays_.

The Elven Princeling

"Are you certain that you wish to return to our people by joining a training patrol of newly recruited Rangers?" Baerdion, who had been tasked with preparing the young Men of the Northern Dúnedain to protect their ancestral lands from all enemies, carefully surveyed the youth who stood before him. The young Man's face was beardless, his hair long and arranged in Elven warrior braids the older Man was certain had been properly earned, his grey eyes, which held a touch of green and blue like the Sea, steady.

"Is this not how those who become Rangers usually meet one another?" asked Arathorn's son.

"Most of them live either within the Angle or between the ruins of Fornost and Annúminas," Baerdion explained, "and so they have all had occasion to meet with at least some of those from other villages. This time, other than you, only the two who come from our settlements on the Firth of Lhûn are strangers to all the others chosen for this patrol."

"At least I will not be the only stranger to the others in the group, then."

"No," agreed Baerdion, "that is true. But you will stand out from the others by your speech, your dress, and your training."

"My brothers have told me that they have had a hand in the training of many of the Dúnedain's warriors for many lifetimes of Men. How will mine be any different?"

Baerdion gave a twisted smile. "When the sons of Elrond come among us, they come for a few months at a time, and they work primarily with Men who have already had experience in both battle and surveillance, helping them to enhance skills they already have honed. You, on the other hand, have been working with them from your earliest days, and I have been told by Elrohir that you began training in tracking when you were barely able to walk and that you can follow the trail of a mouse that passed that way six days previously. None of these young Men will have such skills. And as you have been trained in archery and swordcraft by Elves from the beginning, you will begin by holding your weapons in a different manner, and the others will find that questionable. Can you bear with their criticism of you? For you can believe me that they will be critical of you, of all you say and do and of how you say and do it. You were not raised as they were, and they will most likely all see you as alien in nature to themselves, and many of them will feel threatened by that sense of difference."

Young Aragorn shrugged, and Baerdion felt relieved to see that he had not as yet been able to perfect the level of arrogant grace with which Elves performed such a simple gesture. Had he been able to fully replicate the shrug as performed by, say, Lord Glorfindel, it would be unlikely that the boy would be accepted at all by the others who would be joining them over the next few days. Nor had he learned fully to hide his thoughts, not as yet, at least. The Man could see that Aragorn now felt concern for how he might be accepted by others. As for Halbarad, who had been standing quietly beside his newly-met cousin throughout the interview so far, he noted that Halbaleg's son was nodding his agreement with Baerdion's assessment of the situation for which he was trying to prepare their new Chieftain.

Aragorn said, "I have been warned that this might well be so, and I will accept it. I must if I am to take my father's place with this people."

Well, at least Gilraen, Elrond, and the denizens of Rivendell had not sought to convince the lad that it would be easy to come of a sudden into the midst of the Dúnedain and be accepted as Arathorn's heir immediately! Baerdion found himself giving a nod of understanding and further relief. "Then it would appear that you have been prepared in a realistic manner, young Lord. But tell me, why have you chosen to enter immediately into a training mission? I am told that you have already proved yourself as a warrior. You could merely have been introduced to the elders as the son to your father and the Lady Gilraen, and could then have walked by the sides of your grandfather Dírhael and your Uncle Halbaleg and learned of our style of leadership and the nature of our people from them."

"My-" The young Man stopped, as if suddenly uncomfortable with what he had been ready to say. He began again. "Lord Elrond and I discussed this, in company with Glorfindel, Elladan, and Elrohir. In the end it was left for me to decide how I should present myself to this, my true people, the ones for whom I must offer leadership and rule, for whom I must be ready to spend myself if it proves necessary."

Again Baerdion nodded slowly. "Go on," he prompted.

Aragorn took a deep breath. "I could go first to my uncle and my grandfather and apprentice myself to them, but in doing so I would be identifying myself with them, with those older than myself. I would not have established ties to those of my own age, those who will be my own first lieutenants as we take the field and offer protection to the peoples of Eriador, all of whom, whether or not they are of the Dúnedain, are yet under my protection as the Heir to Isildur."

Baerdion did his best to suppress the twitch of surprise and pleasure his lip wanted to show at the youth's words. Instead he gave a single nod.

"I need to prove to those who will be the commanders I must rely on that I am not distant from them. Yes, I know how to fight and track, how to handle sword, knife, and bow, how to anticipate how orcs, trolls, and ruthless Men are likely to attack or respond to the threat those with me pose to them. I have stood by my _adar's_ side as he has dispensed judgment and have even been consulted at times as to how I might respond to such cases as are likely to come under my decision when I am accepted as the ruler to the Northern Dúnedain. But will those I would lead onto the field accept that role for me if they are not convinced that I can indeed fight? Will they listen if they have not found personal reasons to trust my judgment? Will they accept my help in the healers' tents if they are uncertain as to how much of the gift of healing I have inherited from my great-father Eärendil, much less that I have been trained to use it properly?

"I am already accepted as a warrior, as you say, but not by those whose acceptance of that role is crucial to my rule in the future. I have been accepted as such by _Elves_, but it will be among _Men_ that I will live from this time forward. As these will not be accepted as full warriors until they have finished their training mission, so it must be for me. Also, I must become more aware of how it is that Men have been taught to fight and protect themselves. I have only fought by those who have had millennia to perfect their skills. I know that I have much to learn about working alongside Men, who are, after all, my own people. By going on this patrol, not only will I learn of them, but they will be learning from me. As we are all supposed to be learning together, they will hopefully be more open to learn what I have to teach and show them, and in the end have more respect for what they have learned about my abilities once they realize who I am and what I am intended to be as the leader of the Dúnedain."

"Then you do not intend to reveal your true identity to them from the beginning?"

"And have them forcibly deferring to me from the start?" Aragorn shook his head, his imagination already playing out that scene for him. "No, let them think of me as merely a youth as they are, although one who grew up amongst Elves rather than Men. Some will discern the truth easily enough, I suspect, while others will be stubbornly obtuse about my likely parentage. But unless they are able to easily express their discomfort for the differences between us, I doubt that that discomfort will ever truly be put aside as we learn to trust one another."

"Then how am I to introduce you?"

Halbarad spoke up then. "How about calling him Peredhrion? He has lived as the fostered son of the Peredhil, after all."

This time Baerdion allowed himself to smile. "A good plan, Halbarad. You have your grandfather's sagacity."

Apparently unable to think of a better name to take unto himself, Aragorn indicated his agreement, and so his first patrol as a would-be Ranger of the North began.

(I) (I) (I)

Those who would take part in the training patrol varied in age from seventeen to twenty-two. Even the one who was seventeen was beginning to show signs that he would grow a full beard within a year or two; against the others the one called Peredhrion appeared youthful indeed, his cheeks still smooth with no trace of down.

Baerdion was himself but thirty-two. He had spent some time in his early twenties riding with the sons of Elrond, who had praised his skills. He had proved himself good with the new recruits, and so had been involved in such training missions for the past six years, alongside Malvegern, who had been working with the youngest Rangers for better than three decades. They and Túrin son of Gardir, who'd been a Ranger for five years and who served as quartermaster for the patrol, knew the true identity of Peredhrion; only Halbarad of the recruits themselves knew this information. All four were sworn to silence by Halbarad's father Halbaleg, who had served as Steward for the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain until a new Chieftain should be finally appointed, a day that had not come any more than had happened in Gondor in nearly a thousand years since Eärnur disappeared into the mouth of the Morgul Vale.

It took three days for those who would join this patrol to gather near their Steward's dwelling, and the youths greeted one another cheerfully enough, save for the new one in Elven dress—no one seemed to know quite how to respond to him. One of those who was nineteen, a narrow-faced youth with a suspicious air, made a point of approaching Malvegern and asking in Adûnaic in what was meant to appear a confidential manner but which in fact was intended to be heard, "What are we doing with _that_ one in our midst? What do Elves do, seeking to train with Edain?"

Malvegern kept his expression strictly neutral. "I assure you that Peredhrion is as much one of the Dúnedain as you are, Orominion. In years past his father often fought alongside the sons of Elrond, and he died during one of their sojourns together. When they came to bear word to Peredhrion's mother, they found her ill and the boy also near death, so they took the two of them into their keeping, feeling they owed their friend's family a debt of honor."

"And they send a mere stripling to train alongside us?"

Malvegern turned an evaluative gaze upon Peredhrion. "And just how is he more a stripling than you or any of the rest?"

Orominion gave a vague wave of his hand at the youth in question. "Look at him—he has not yet begun to grow a beard! Even Berevrion there will likely be shaving ere we're through with this patrol, and he's but seventeen! They send a mere child to learn a Man's duties?"

The Ranger's expression grew stern as he turned his gaze on Orominion. "He is taller than any of the rest of you. And not all of us grow beards. Ripon has never done so, and he is your own close kinsman, is he not?"

Orominion straightened, obviously stung by the tone of Malvegern's voice. "Ripon has never appeared a foppish fellow," he grunted. "Not like that one there."

One of the other young Men, a broader youth with a cheerful expression, broke into the discussion. "Agreed, he looks quite the Elvish princeling, but you'd best remember that Elves are deadly fighters. Odds are that he's good with that blade of his, particularly if he was trained by the sons of Elrond; and as that sword appears to be of Elvish make I'd also hazard that it's a deadly weapon indeed."

Orominion gave his fellow a disapproving stare. "The meanest sword borne by a true Dúnedain Ranger is the equal of any Elvish blade, Dirigil."

Dirigil merely shrugged, refusing to be chastened by the likes of Orominion. "If you say so. I would be glad enough to carry a sword crafted by the Elves."

One of the others laughed. "I'll match my sword with anyone else's blade. It's of Dwarvish make from the hills beyond Fornost, and it's been in my family for six generations! Wouldn't give it up for love nor money!"

Peredhrion glanced over at the others, and then turned back to going through his pack, his mouth set, making certain that all was settled properly, with those things he suspected he would need frequent access to within easy reach. He had a second long bag he'd brought with him that so far he'd not allowed Halbarad to look within. Halbarad sat nearby, working a new lace through the leatherwork for a worn stirrup that it not give way unexpectedly while they were on the road. Halbarad also glanced at the others, and when he turned his attention back down to his work he murmured softly in Sindarin, "He is assuming by the fact that you have no beard as yet that you are younger than Berevrion, even."

"I know what he's saying," Aragorn returned, his words abrupt. "I do speak Adûnaic, after all. When I was a child my mother usually addressed me in Adûnaic, m-Master Elrond would speak with me in Sindarin, Glorfindel in Quenya, and Erestor in Westron that I become proficient in all of the languages commonly spoken throughout Eriador." He worked quietly for a moment, listening to the others in spite of his apparent distraction. At last he glanced up from his pack to meet Halbarad's eyes. "Let them think for a time that I cannot understand Adûnaic. I suspect that when it becomes obvious I do it will cause Orominion particularly a good deal of embarrassment."

Halbarad's hands went idle momentarily as he searched his cousin's face. A small smile twitched at his lips. "You would listen in on what they say about you, would you?" At Aragorn's slight nod he continued, "My mother has always warned that listening in on what others say about you is bound to make you uncomfortable, as you most likely will hear things that you do not want to know."

"Perhaps," Aragorn said softly and slowly, "I shall not wish to know all that they think of me. But that does not mean I should remain ignorant of it."

Halbarad gave a slight shrug, and both resumed their work.

Baerdion came down to join the party not long afterward, his attention focused on Aragorn. "Peredhrion!" he called in Westron. "If you will come, Berevrion's father has sent down from his horse herds a steed that should serve you well."

Aragorn looked up, gave a nod, and swiftly replaced the last few items within his pack and fastened it.

"He doesn't even have a horse of his own?" Orominion demanded, switching to Westron. "Since when do the Elves deny their young princelings a steed? Is he even a proficient rider?"

"I can ride well enough," Peredhrion answered him as he rose to approach Baerdion. "But the horses I rode when I was younger belonged to my hosts, never to me. Anyway, a fine Ranger I would make riding a horse far beyond my apparent station." He turned to Baerdion. "How am I to repay Lord Halbaleg and Berevrion's father for a mount of my own?"

Malvegern sighed. "I suppose that if it serves as balm to your bruised honor you may think of this horse also as a loan, youngling. But Berevrion's father had his life saved by yours more than once, as is true of most of those who rode with him ere he died, and accounts a single horse for that Ranger's son but a tithe of what he owes in return." Peredhrion's neck flushed, but his expression remained fixed. Malvegern straightened and addressed the other young Men in the party, speaking still in Westron. "Know this—every Man who has ever fought in the Rangers has managed to do similarly—to save his fellows more than once, and we do not forget such service. Not ever. And considering that when we last saw Peredhrion here we thought him dying, and indeed many have thought him dead these many years, to have him returned to us to take his father's place amongst our Rangers and our people is a great gift indeed to those of us who have grieved so long for his father's loss. Now, I see that while the rest of you have been indulging in idle talk, Halbarad and Peredhrion alone have been preparing for our training patrol by readying their gear. I suggest that the rest of you do the same. Now, _go!_"

The party dispersed at speed, and the one known as Peredhrion went with Baerdion to examine the gift made him by Berevrion's father.

(I) (I) (I)

Of the young would-be Rangers, most spoke primarily Westron and Adûnaic. Besides Halbarad, Peredhrion, and the two from the Firth of Lhûn, only three others spoke any Sindarin beyond the most basic.

Halbarad's two younger brothers spent a good deal of time with those who would take part in the patrol before they left Halbaleg's lands. Here they camped for four days as they were evaluated by Malvegern and Baerdion and as the final supplies to be administered by Túrin were gathered and prepared for the two pack horses. Peredhrion was not the only one to be riding a steed new to him; the two from Lhûn admitted that they rarely had known any chance to ride astride prior to this, as most horses that far west were draft animals. Their mounts were gifts from an uncle who dwelt near the ruins of Fornost, and they were usually sore after only an hour or two of riding practice. The other young Men were surprised to see Peredhrion assigned to apply ointment intended to ease their sore muscles, but it soon was accepted that the Elvish princeling, as he was usually entitled, had a deft hand when dealing with medicaments. By the time they were ready to ride out for the first time together, all accepted that Peredhrion would most likely serve as their orderly should any suffer injury.

Halbarad's brothers stood by rebelliously to watch them leave, the younger one, Hardorn, swearing that he would not wait more than a year more before he, too, rode out on his initial patrol with the Rangers. Peredhrion smiled down upon him and bade him keep a guard upon his father's keep, and waved back at the two brothers ere the patrol disappeared into the forestlands, heading eastward toward the Ettenmoors and the Misty Mountains. Their initial patrol as Rangers of the North was begun at last!

"Well," commented young Berevrion to Dirigil in Adûnaic, "there's no question of Peredhrion's ability to ride!"

That was true enough. The horse sent down by Berevrion's father was a gelding of three years who might have been properly broken to the saddle, but he made it plain that he did not like being ridden for prolonged periods of time. Yet, in spite of the fact he wore no spurs, Peredhrion swiftly and effectively exerted his mastery over the animal, and within the space of a day was experiencing no more balking from his mount. No one understood what it was that Peredhrion said in Quenya to the horse, but whether it was the words or merely the tone of voice did not matter in the end. The animal calmed notably and was soon one of the steadiest mounts in the entire patrol.

They camped that first night in the ruins of a former hamlet on the banks of a stream that fed into the Mitheithil. It was the first time that most of those taking part in the patrol had seen the damage inflicted upon their people by the Enemy's creatures, and even Dirigil grew solemn as he surveyed the extensive signs of fire and heavy clubs and saw the mound raised over the mass grave for the dead.

Peredhrion examined a wall where it had been beaten down, and commented, "Trolls did that."

"And how is it the likes of you would recognize the work of trolls, Princeling?" demanded Orominion.

Baerdion shook his head, saying tersely, "He is right, Orominion," and leaving it at that.

They awoke to lowering clouds and a stiff westerly breeze that intensified into an uncomfortable gale by midmorning. Not long after noon it began to rain, and within an hour all were wet in their saddles as they worked their way southward along the foothills of the mountain chain. Most were complaining under their breath, even Halbarad. Only Peredhrion and the two from Lhûn held off from voicing their discomfort, although the younger of those two was soon white with cold and pain from his saddle sores. Peredhrion wore now a cloak that appeared to shed much of the rain, although he was constantly rearranging it so as to keep water from finding a larger opening down his neck. His knees were as sopping as were those of the rest, but he bore it silently, his eyes ceaselessly watching from side to side.

"What is he looking for?" asked one of the smaller youths.

Halbarad nodded toward Malvegern and Baerdion. "Most likely the same as them—anything out of the ordinary. He has ridden out with Elvish patrols, after all."

"So he says," muttered Orominion in Adûnaic, and one of the oldest of them grunted his agreement.

There was nothing to indicate that Peredhrion had been listening, but Halbarad was certain that he'd heard even the quietest comments.

Halbarad became aware that his cousin was also keeping a concerned eye on the two from Lhûn, for after a glance over his shoulder at the younger of the pair he turned his horse to come alongside Malvegern, with whom he spoke in soft Sindarin.

The Man gave a quick glance at the miserable youth, and said in Westron, "We shall be coming to shelter soon, at which time we will do what we can to ease whatever discomfort anyone feels. But all need to know that what we would wish for is rarely what we find when we ride out on patrol."

Not long afterward they approached a valley between two hills, and all could see Peredhrion become even more alert, eyeing the valley with suspicion before turning his attention upwards at the slopes to either side. At the last moment, however, they turned to the right to skirt the outer hill along its western flank. Peredhrion gave a single nod, but he still divided his attention between the hillside to their left and the way ahead. Suddenly he stopped, signaling those behind him to halt as well. When Malvegern eyed him in question, the young Man indicated a tumble of stone lying on the edge of the path, and Halbarad noted it was not the same color on top as it was on its sides. Malvegern exchanged a glance with Baerdion, who gave a nod. Smiling grimly, Malvegern loosened his sword in its sheath, and Baerdion signaled for the rest to do the same. Remembering the instructions they'd been given before leaving Halbaleg's lands, they increased the distance between them, and two who carried horse bows swiftly strung their bows and slipped arrows from their quivers.

"Let's hope that the strings have not taken the damp," muttered Dirigil. Wet weather could play havoc with bowstrings; that Halbarad knew as well.

The assault was sudden, but they were prepared for it. A small boulder rolled down the hillside before the nose of Orominion's horse, and behind it came three orcs, none of them particularly large but all carrying scimitars stained dark with filth. One fell with an arrow in its side, while Orominion managed to defend himself from the second. Four more followed the first three, and the young Men were soon busy defending their line. The skirmish didn't last particularly long, and soon all seven orcs lay dead. Dirigil had a shallow cut to one arm, and the older boy from Lhûn had been hit by a thrown rock and was holding the side of his head with blood seeping out from between his fingers. But they had all survived—that was good to know!

Baerdion called on three of the youths to help him dispose of the bodies, and Peredhrion to stand guard on them as they did so. The rest followed Malvegern beyond the hill, where he led them past the ruins of an ancient watch tower to a hidden covert along the wall of the next hillside. He indicated they should remain quiet behind a screen of trees and bushes and wait while he scouted the place he'd chosen, and at last he appeared from the shadows beneath the hillside and signaled for them to join him. There was a natural bowl in which the horses could be successfully hidden, and a shallow cave where they could take refuge from the weather. As the group crowded into the cave Halbarad realized he was shaking badly, now that the danger was past.

Berevrion and another were assigned to keep watch while two of their number and Túrin saw to the horses and Halbarad and one of the older youths fetched water as directed by Malvegern. Dirigil had shed his cloak when they returned, and a fire was burning in a hollow in the furthest reaches of the cave where a small crack served as a chimney to draw off what smoke there might be. Soon they were joined by Baerdion and his party, who threw off their damp cloaks as quickly as could be managed. Malvegern was examining Dirigil's wound, and beckoned Peredhrion to join him. They conferred as to what ought to be done in rapid Sindarin, and at last the Man indicated for Peredhrion to see the wound treated while he examined the two youths from Lhûn.

"You're going to allow a mere _boy_ to treat Dirigil's cut?" demanded Finwë, one of the older youths from a settlement near the ruins of Annúminas, in Adûnaic.

Malvegern cocked an eye at him. "Do you have a healer's kit from Rivendell? No? Then let the one who has one do what he's been trained to do." He turned his attention back to the older one from Lhûn and switched back to Westron. "I will need to clean where the stone hit you, Damrod, although it will be an easier job than Peredhrion there is facing with Dirigil. You, Finwë—get some clean rags from Túrin and dampen them in cold water. We may also need a bandage to bind about his brow. I doubt the wound is too deep, or it's likely Damrod would be unconscious by now. Brendor, if you will help Peredhrion—when it comes to cleaning that wound Dirigil is likely to fight it."

Brendor, whose father had a farm near Halbaleg's land, nodded his understanding and turned to join Peredhrion at Dirigil's side.

Dirigil did seek to fight Peredhrion at least at first as the young Man sought to cleanse the wound with spirits. "It's but a shallow enough cut!" he objected. "Spirits will burn it like fire!"

"That is true enough, but I fear water alone won't be enough to counter all that is likely to be found on an orc's blade," Peredhrion pointed out. "Orcs smear all sorts of filth and poisons on their weapons—that Lord Elrond has learned to the grief of many far too often in the years he has served as a healer and as a teacher of healers. Spirits serve to cleanse away such filth more effectively than mere water. Now, if you will look into my eyes and hearken to my voice…."

There was something soothing in his tone as he spoke quietly and calmly, and Dirigil's eyes first opened wider, then half closed as if he were nearly ready to sleep. As Peredhrion took his arm and began cutting away the sleeve of his shirt to expose the wound, Dirigil made no outcry of protest, not even when Túrin, at Peredhrion's quiet direction, poured the liquor directly over the cut, Brendor catching the overflow in a bowl held under the arm. Peredhrion used clean cloths to make certain that all was properly cleansed, finally smearing the wound with honey and bandaging it tightly. "I will have to check it several times a day in order to make certain that it does not become seriously infected, and there are other treatments we can use if that happens," he said as Dirigil suddenly snapped back into full awareness. "But it is likely that we were able to wash out the worst of what might cause infections. It is not deep enough to require stitches, so it is better to merely bandage it so that we do not accidently hold any filth within the wound to cause problems later."

Dirigil looked questioningly between his bandaged arm and Peredhrion, at last offering a confused thanks for what the other youth had done, and he went over to where packs and bedrolls were set to get a different shirt to change into and to draw his blanket about his shoulders. He told the others quietly that he had felt somehow distanced from the proceedings, as if it were another who was having raw spirits poured over his wound rather than himself, and that although there was still a burning in the wound that it at least felt clean and wholesome.

Peredhrion was now examining the wound on the side of Damrod's head, agreeing with Malvegern that it did not appear serious but advising the younger boy that it would most likely be rather painful and swollen for a few days. Malvegern directed Peredhrion to bandage it, and once that was done Damrod announced with surprise that he felt much the better, and smiled tremulously up into the taller youth's eyes.

Finwë and Orominion exchanged looks of confusion, which Peredhrion pointedly ignored. Halbarad shook his head at the other young Men's discomfiture, knowing that Aragorn had easily understood Finwë's objections to him being chosen to minister to Dirigil.

As they gathered about the fire to eat the meal Túrin had prepared for them, Damrod turned to Peredhrion. "You knew that orcs were likely to be on that hillside, didn't you?" At the taller youth's nod, he asked, "How did you know?"

Peredhrion exchanged glances with Baerdion. "It was the fall of rocks by the path—it was too fresh, and the upper surface of many of the stones had plainly been deeper into the soil of the hillside very recently. It was likely that there were enemies of some sort above us, although that hillside could not hold many unseen. I was relieved that we did not go between the two hills, as then it would be possible that we could have enemies above us on both sides, ready to roll stones down upon us from above with no room for us to move out of the way as Orominion was able to do."

"Were there any enemies upon the other hillside?" asked another youth named Geldir of Baerdion.

"We saw signs after we saw to the disposal of the bodies that originally the four who came second had been waiting upon the other hill, which was why they came down upon us after the first three. But we saw no further signs than that. We will send a small group out in the morning to see if this was a scouting party for a larger troop of orcs, but we should be safe enough here for the night."

"But why here?" demanded Orominion. "Why not in that watch tower? It ought to have been more comfortable for us."

Malvegern cast an eye at Peredhrion. "Can you hazard a guess as to why we did not use the watch tower for shelter?"

"There were trees and shrubbery right up to the wall of the tower on one side," came the answer. "We could not have been able to clearly see any approaching us, and there was no sheltered place for the horses. And there were signs that orcs had been there recently, perhaps the very party that attacked us."

"I saw no signs of orcs there," objected Orominion.

Baerdion shook his head. "Perhaps we should return there in the morning, although by then the rain might well have washed away the signs Peredhrion recognized. The rest of you should know this—Peredhrion here may not have ridden out on patrol with any of the Dúnedain in the past, but he has ridden out with the sons of Elrond. He has been instructed in how to recognize the passage of orcs, trolls, and evil Men by those who have had many, many lives of Men to learn to recognize their signs. If any of you have the chance to ride with the Elves in the future, you would do well to take it and learn from them what they are willing to teach. There is no better tracker to learn from than an experienced Elven warrior."

There were low murmurs as the young Men of the patrol considered this information.

Not long afterward the three older Men withdrew slightly. Baerdion went out to watch with those keeping guard, while Malvegern indicated he intended to get some sleep while he could. Túrin chose three to help him clean up after the meal, and the rest sat about the fire, talking idly, eventually to be joined by those who'd done the washing up. Soon the party began exchanging boasts and jokes. But while even Halbarad was laughing freely with the rest, Peredhrion, though he sat with them, did not appear to find the jests humorous. At last he, too, indicated he would rather sleep than sit up longer, and he fetched his blanket roll and set it out in an out-of-the-way place and lay down. Those at the fire switched to Adûnaic, continuing to speak quietly until, one by one, the rest slipped away to find places of their own to sleep.

Halbarad came to lie down near his cousin, and realized that Aragorn was still awake. "Why could you not laugh with them?" he demanded in whispered Sindarin. "They now think that you consider yourself too far above them to appreciate their jests and boasts."

Aragorn gave a slight shake to his head. "But why were those stories considered funny?" he whispered back. "I do not see anything humorous in considering the possible last thoughts of a dying orc!"

"That story you told about someone named Erestor certainly was not funny," Halbarad responded.

"It was if you knew him," his cousin insisted.

Halbarad shook his head in exasperation. "But how are we to know anyone you've been around while you were growing up? Few Men have been free to come and go within Imladris for many years."

Aragorn sighed. "I suppose that you are right. But I simply do not appreciate why that story Bregorn told about his father should be considered funny at all."

Halbarad was about to respond to that when he realized that he had been ready to use precisely the same reasoning as his cousin had used regarding the story about Erestor. He merely shook his head, and advised Aragorn to get some sleep while he could.

But Aragorn did not sleep, for he was now listening to the three who remained around the fire, who included Orominion, Finwë, and Bregorn. And the three of them were discussing the braids that Peredhrion wore and what his reaction might be should he awaken to find them gone….

(I) (I) (I)

It was Finwë who drew the short straw and was expected by his fellows to cut at least one of Peredhrion's braids from his head. He lay awake in his bedroll until it was plain all others were asleep, at which time he slipped out of his blankets and crept with great quietness to the place where Peredhrion lay near Lord Halbaleg's son. It had been agreed that it was most likely that Lord Halbaleg had enjoined his son to befriend the newest member of the Dúnedain that the young Man not feel totally alone while out upon this patrol. How close the two of them were was unclear to the rest, particularly as the tone of voice Halbarad had used when he went to lie down near Peredhrion had indicated that he, too, was annoyed with the one raised by the Elves. Finwë drew the knife he wore in an ankle sheath, knowing it was honed to razor sharpness. It should work well enough to remove a braid from the side of Peredhrion's head, he thought.

But as he leaned over his intended victim suddenly his wrist was caught in a vise-like grip. "I do not suggest you ever think to approach me with a drawn blade," Peredhrion hissed in Westron, applying additional pressure until Finwë's knife fell from his hand and clattered on the stone floor of the cave.

To his credit, Finwë did not cry out, although his expression indicated he was in a good deal of pain. Baerdion, who was entering the cave at that point in order to summon the next pair to take the watch, was upon the two of them like a panther leaping. "What is this?" he demanded. He saw the glint of reflected light from the knife's blade and instantly realized whose it was. He turned on Finwë. "Why did you come upon Peredhrion with a drawn knife?" he asked, his tone deadly serious.

Peredhrion sat up, although he kept hold of Finwë's wrist. "Do not worry, Lord Baerdion. He meant me no real harm, thinking that what he intended was merely a jest of sorts. But I will not allow my dignity to be taken from me in what is intended to be a mere prank."

The others were rousing and raising themselves up on their elbows, all craning to see what was causing the disturbance. Baerdion looked from one of the two linked youths to the other, seeing a braid on Peredhrion's head swinging as the young Man straightened further. "Oh, so that is it, eh?" he said. "I would almost wish to see his wrist broken for thinking to do such a thing, but then he would be of little use to the rest of us for the remainder of our patrol. Let him go, Peredhrion."

Peredhrion did so, and instantly Finwë was cradling his wrist. "I cannot feel my fingers!" he protested.

"Had you received your due, you would be more concerned about having to have your hand splinted and immobilized," Malvegern noted, coming to stand by his second. "Threatening one who has the training this one has is never a good idea, even if it were perceived as the joke you'd intended. He probably could have snapped your wrist like a twig, had he been so inclined. And threatening a warrior's braided locks was as stupid a move as anyone could have considered."

He looked around at the group of would-be Rangers. "You have never been amongst the Elves as have Baerdion or I," he said, "so you can have no idea as to what the warrior's braids mean. Each twist and entwined bead has its own meaning, and no Elf is allowed to braid his temple locks at all until he has earned that right in battle. I suspect that Elladan and Elrohir, possibly assisted by the great Lord Glorfindel himself, first braided this one's hair, but not until he had proven himself by their standards, which I assure you are high. The braids indicate that he has fought and fought hard, and that his actions served to spare one or more of his companions in the patrols he has ridden with from imminent death at the hands of their enemies. He is a fair shot with the bow as Elves judge it, but is an expert with sword and knife. I have noted that in the sparring we did back ere we left Lord Halbaleg's keep Peredhrion always tempered his blows, not allowing any of us to see just how good he is with a blade. As we meet more orcs and other enemies I suspect that we will begin to see just how good he actually is. No, he does not hold his weapons as you do, but then he has been trained from his childhood by Elves, not Men. And he has already proven to us all that he is familiar with the tactics of orcs and with seeing signs of disturbance."

He turned his attention now on Peredhrion himself, who'd risen to his feet. "On the other hand, you have already been warned that by identifying yourself with the Elves who saw you raised after your father's death you set yourself apart from these, who are now your true peers. Remember that, Peredhrion." So saying, he turned to Baerdion. "For the next watch, I suggest Bregorn and Orominion, and these two for the watch ere dawn." At Baerdion's nod, he looked about him and ordered, "The rest of you, sleep while you can." So saying, he swept up Finwë's knife and returned it to its owner.

Aragorn lay down again by Halbarad. "I warned you," the latter yawned.

Aragorn gave a slight shrug. "Well," he responded in Sindarin, "you must remember that I was raised another way." He closed his eyes and was soon—apparently—asleep.


	4. The Patrol

The Patrol

When the others rose in the morning, Peredhrion was already out amongst the horses, currying his mount, speaking to it in soft tones as he did so. When he came within the cavern to share the dawn meal, he took his rations and sat on his rolled blankets to eat, watching the others thoughtfully. When he was done he saw his own plate and cup cleaned and returned to Túrin's keeping before approaching first Damrod, then Dirigil, and finally the younger boy from Lhûn to check on the condition of each.

Dirigil's arm appeared to be in good shape, as did Damrod's head. But for Varadorn, the younger boy from Lhûn, the situation was not so good.

"There are decided breaks in the skin here and here," Peredhrion explained to Malvegern, "and the cold damp of the ride yesterday did him no favors. Should those breaks become infected, it could be quite serious, as close as they are to the blood vessels in the groin."

"Should we wash the affected area with an infusion of athelas, do you think?" the older Ranger asked.

The younger Man considered their patient thoughtfully. "That, and perhaps some special balm that m-Master Elrond made up at my request. Then wrap them to offer more protection?"

"See it done, then, youngling." He looked up to note that most of the other youths were standing about, watching with curiosity. "And what has drawn you lot like moths to a flame? Get on with you! We ought to be ready to leave in an hour's time, so see to it your things are packed and your horses readied. Bregorn, I would like for you to prepare Varadorn's horse and his saddlebags and bedroll. Peredhrion, when we mount up, will you please examine Varadorn's seat to see if there is anything we can adjust to make things more comfortable for him?"

The others appeared to be surprised at this last request by their mentor, and there were a few comments shared about it in soft Adûnaic as the others prepared to leave the shelter of the shallow cave.

Halbarad saddled Peredhrion's horse for him, and settled his saddlebags, pack, and bedroll in their proper places. When at last the tall, beardless youth had finished helping Varadorn pull his trews on over the bandages gently bound about his thighs and had finished his evaluation of how Varadorn sat his steed, he seemed both surprised and grateful for Halbarad's aid. He checked the girth for the saddle as well as the seat of the bridle in his mount's mouth before he swung up onto the horse's back.

"What's the matter, Princeling?" demanded Finwë. "Don't you trust Halbarad to see it done right?"

Peredhrion appeared surprised by the question. But it was Berevrion who came to his defense. "Did no one ever tell you that a good horseman always checks the bridle and girth for himself, no matter how much he trusts others to prepare the horse otherwise? Well, that is what my father always told me. And it appears that Peredhrion has been taught the same way that I was."

Baerdion appeared amused. "As Berevrion's father is one of the best breeders and trainers of horses amongst all of our people, I suggest, Finwë, that you listen well to his advice."

Finwë flushed, but there was nothing further he could say without making himself appear more foolish, so he wisely kept his mouth shut.

They rode out of their shelter, back the way they'd come. Berevrion came alongside Peredhrion and asked in a warm voice, "What have you named this one?"

The taller youth smiled in welcome. "I'd thought to name him Carniaxo, or Redbone, in honor of his reddish color," he said. "But I did not wish to change his name if he already had one from your family's time with him."

The younger boy laughed. "We have just called him the red colt, so you aren't far off of what he's used to answering to already." He reached over and scratched an attentive ear. "He answers well to you. The Elves appear to have taught you properly how to work with horses. Have you always ridden?"

Peredhrion nodded. "I was introduced to horses when I was young. My mother felt that I would need to know how to ride, so a pony was procured for me when I was still quite small. I rode around the valley frequently behind my mother and my—behind the sons of Elrond."

"What was the pony's name?"

"It was named Gerontius."

Berevrion laughed. "What kind of name is Gerontius?"

"Erestor says that it was the name of a Hobbit of the Shire who visited Rivendell on occasion. M-Master Elrond admired him, and said that the pony was wise, like Gerontius the Hobbit."

Finwë, who rode not that far away, snorted. "Hobbits of the Shire do not travel outside their own lands," he said with authority. "Papa says that they distrust us Big Folk, and think that all of the other lands are wild and dangerous."

Peredhrion shrugged. "I met one once, back when I was a child. He came to Rivendell with thirteen Dwarves."

Before Finwë could belittle that statement Brendor spoke up. "That did happen, that a Hobbit of the Shire came out of his land with thirteen Dwarves and Gandalf the Grey. My father saw them not far from Amon Sûl, and was amazed that any Hobbit of the Shire would go so far from his home. But my grandsire said that in his youth he heard tell of another Hobbit who would travel at times to Lord Elrond's house alongside the Grey Wizard. My uncle has served on many patrols through Bree and has even ridden through the Shire from time to time. He says that the Hobbits of the Shire distrust Gandalf, and consider him a bad influence upon their young people."

"He makes wonderful fireworks, though," Berevrion said. "My father said that those he displayed when Lord Arathorn married the Lady Gilraen were things of wonder."

Peredhrion appeared to be intrigued by this and was preparing to ask a question when they were all interrupted by Malvegern. "Peredhrion! Here!"

The youth put aside all curiosity at the tale of the Grey Wizard's fireworks at the wedding of the last Chieftain of the Dúnedain, his attention now fixed upon the Man who'd called him forward. "Captain?" he said.

The Man indicated the watch tower ahead of them. "You said last night that you saw signs that orcs had come this way."

Peredhrion nodded, and swept his gaze about the area. "You were correct in indicating that the rain would most likely sweep away most of the signs I'd seen. But note that branch there of the birch just this side of the tower, how it is broken. Had it been a Man, the damage would be small, most likely a bent leaf at most, for it would have struck him upon his head had he been walking beneath it and it would have done him but small harm; therefore he would not have done much in response. But that branch is almost torn off the limb. That is common to orcs, who resent all that is lovely and growing and will see any perceived insult to their own deformity responded to with needless and destructive violence.

"Last night I could see footprints common to the heavy, rough boots worn by those who dwell in the lower slopes of the mountains and who thus do more raiding of the lands below them. Among the boot prints were three other prints, those of at least one large animal with great claws, which I judged to be the prints of a great wolf or small warg, which are often ridden by the orcs as we ride horses. The prints came from the way that we have just come, heading that way, toward the two hills that we skirted and where we met the seven orcs we slew. This is attested also by the angle of the cracked branch, indicating that the orc who sought to pull it from the tree was heading in that direction. But most of the footprints I saw last night appeared to have gone to the west, indicating that most were intent on making a raid on whatever homes, farms, or settlements might lie west of us. That seven met us upon the hills is most likely due to one or more of those seven smelling our scent upon the wind—many orcs have senses of smell as keen as that of any good hound. They were perhaps hungrier than the rest, or may have been sent as a rear guard to take us captive or slay us that we not attack the others. Either way, they had hoped we should ride between the hills and thus would make of ourselves easy prey. That we went west of the outer hill must have frustrated them terribly. If they were hungry, we certainly denied them their meal."

He looked about again, and pointed here and there where he said that the heel or toe of one of the boots of the orcs still could be discerned. Some could be readily seen by the others, while many were not clear enough for anyone other than perhaps Baerdion to recognize. They went a ways west, and more branches broken as had been the one he'd indicated back by the tower led the other youths to realize that he was right about a larger group heading further out into the lands in that direction.

"What shall we do?" asked Brendor. "Are there any who dwell in the path the orcs have taken?"

"What if there were any others left on watch near where we fought the orcs last night?" asked Orominion. "They might have scurried off to their kin and warned them that we survived, in which case they may turn back in search of us."

Malvegern and Baerdion allowed the discussion to go on for some minutes, apparently pleased that the young Men under their tutelage were thinking of how the orcs might act and were conscious of the dangers said creatures posed to others as well as to themselves. However, decisions needed to be made, and Malvegern called a halt to the debate.

"Orominion, Peredhrion, and Finwë, accompanied by Túrin you shall go back to the hills where we encountered the orcs and search for their back trail as well as any sign that others might have been on watch. We shall go forward—slowly and carefully, ever mindful that orcs have a far keener sense of smell than do we Men, and that they may well be aware we follow them long before we realize they are anywhere about and that they are likely to be lying in wait. It is still cloudy, and they will move in daylight if there is enough shadow for them to hide within, or if they know enemies are nearby. Finwë, you and Orominion will follow Peredhrion's orders as if they were from Baerdion or myself. Túrin, unless you see an orc with your own eyes and thus know Peredhrion is wrong, you will do so as well—this time. He has shown that the sons of Elrond were correct when they said he was the best tracker among Men they have ever trained, which is quite the thing to say when one remembers they have been doing this for over two thousand years. They say also he is the best with a blade among Men they have trained in the same time. We will learn, most likely, if this is true should you be forced to fight today. He had little enough to do yesterday with the actual fight, as he was on the end of the line, and the rest of you handled the situation well. But today I suspect that all shall fight. Do not hesitate to strike and to strike deeply, for the orc will never hesitate to kill you if he can.

"Now, go."

If Peredhrion was unhappy to find himself charged to direct these two who appeared to see him as a rival to themselves he did not show it. Instead, he inclined his head to acknowledge the order, and looking between Orominion and Finwë, with a glance at Túrin, he indicated that they should follow him. He turned his horse, and the four of them continued back the way they'd come the day before.

"Which way did they come from?" asked Orominion of Túrin. The latter, leading their two packhorses, shrugged and looked to Peredhrion in question.

"They came from the northeast," Peredhrion said, indicating a trampled area slightly behind them that led back toward the mountains. "They did not come by the cavern where we spent the night, which appears to be favored by Men and Elves, considering the signs I noted there."

"How can anyone know who else tends to stay in a specific place?" demanded Orominion.

"There were signs for those who have the experience to recognize them," Peredhrion answered. "One of the Elves from Rivendell always leaves a certain mark beside the entrance of more sheltered camping spots such as that cavern to indicate he had been there and had found it clear of enemies on a particular day. His mark was there on the cavern, and the signs indicate he was there a fortnight since. Orcs do not like the scent left by Elves, and will not willingly use any shelter frequented by the Eldar if they can avoid doing so. That is the most likely reason that Lords Baerdion and Malvegern took us there, knowing that orcs rarely will approach such places when Elves are known to frequent them except to attack those who might rest within, and then only when they are certain that with their superior numbers they are likely to prevail in a pitched battle.

"As for Men—there were layered traces of old boot prints similar to the boots worn by the Rangers indicating that Men have used that cavern many times throughout living memory. And you, Finwë, were not the first to scrawl your name upon the walls there."

Finwë flushed at having his act recognized, although there was no tone of condemnation in Peredhrion's voice.

They reached the two hills. Peredhrion and Túrin both examined the ground and the slopes thoroughly as they approached, indicating how the seven that had attacked the patrol the day before had separated into the groups split between the two hillsides. The bodies of the slain orcs had been laid in the valley between the two hills and dirt and rocks had been shoveled over them, and Peredhrion indicated how scavengers had already been drawn to the shallow mass grave and had sought to uncover the carrion.

Now they went more slowly, and with Finwë at his side, Peredhrion dismounted so as to check the earth more closely. When Finwë discovered a place where ferns were crushed into the dirt he earned a smile of approval from the taller youth.

Orominion whistled. "Then one did watch the fight yesterday!"

Peredhrion nodded. "And you realized that this might well have happened. He went this direction, which should lead him back to the same trail followed by the larger group. Yes, it would appear that the orcs may well be aware of our fellows tracking them long before they are close enough to scent."

They went more quickly, hoping to come even with the other trainees before they might be taken in an ambush.

It was almost an hour, however, before they heard a clash of arms and realized the orcs and their companions were battling it out behind a stand of trees. Peredhrion again dropped from his mount, and leaving the horses in the keeping of Finwë, he, Túrin, and Orominion split up so as to approach the battle from opposite sides, the two younger Men going together.

"We have come!" shouted Peredhrion as he and Orominion joined the fight, his sword already cutting away the hand of an orc who'd been pressing Berevrion.

Seventeen orcs finally lay dead, and the young Men stood at last over the bodies of the slain, two of them rapidly turning green as the violence they'd just indulged in caught up with them. Varadorn was one who was beginning to lose what he'd eaten earlier, but he'd also managed to kill two of the orcs. Túrin had a shallow cut to his forehead, while two others had each been caught in the shoulder. Bregorn's wound wasn't that serious, but that suffered by Nardir, who was from a settlement not far from Lake Evendim, could easily cost him his arm if it wasn't dealt with immediately.

All had seen Peredhrion fight now, and no one questioned any longer just how good he might be with that sword of his; now they learned firsthand his skill with the surgeon's knife, herbs, and needles he carried with him in that red healer's bag that was part of his gear. Túrin had Halbarad and another raise one of the tents from the packhorses' burdens, and Nardir was carried within it. Lamps were lit, and Peredhrion knelt down to begin working….

It was sunset before he was done. The bodies of the orcs had been hauled to a swamp of which their two mentors knew and disposed of; the area around them was carefully searched, a camp was raised, and a meal was already being cooked. Peredhrion was pale when he finally came out of the tent, and asked for water to be brought him so he could cleanse his hands once more. Once he'd washed himself and removed the shirt he'd been wearing, showing he wore under it a second long-sleeved garment of silk, he sat wearily on an ancient stump with a tin mug of tea in his hand. Halbarad had aided him, and now sat within the tent at Nardir's side, carefully administering sips of rich broth as the young Man could swallow it.

"He is able to move his fingers," Peredhrion reported to Malvegern, and the older Man grunted his relief.

"Then he should not lose the arm."

"Not unless the wound should fester," Peredhrion agreed. "I hope that I was able to cleanse it sufficiently."

"That we shall tell only with time," Baerdion sighed, joining them at the fireside. "So, you have been advised about wearing silk under your gear?"

"Yes, to make it easier to remove any arrows that might be used against us. I am only glad that none of the orcs was an archer."

Several of the others had come closer now that Peredhrion had come out of the tent. "How does silk aid in the removal of arrows?" asked Varadorn.

"The fibers are able to stretch, and often the barbs cannot penetrate the cloth and so tear at the flesh," Malvegern explained. "Silken undergarments are not simply an indulgence, but have been known to save the limbs and at times the lives of their wearers."

There were quiet comments regarding this intelligence, and it was plain that those who could manage it would be investing in such garments for themselves and perhaps brothers and fathers as well, when it was possible to obtain such things, of course. Varadorn and Dirigil were exchanging glances—their families were able to trade with the Elves of Mithlond; if they could arrange to get shipments of silken cloth to Lord Halbaleg, all within the Northern Dúnedain should benefit.

Malvegern continued, "We shall go no further tonight or tomorrow. Hopefully Nardir will be able to ride on the second dawn; we will then continue our patrol. We should meet with Iorvas's patrol in three days. If it is necessary, he can take Nardir back with him to his parents' village while he recovers."

All nodded their understanding.

Save for those on watch few remained awake long that night. Peredhrion returned to the healer's tent and laid himself down by the low cot produced for Nardir's benefit, and slept lightly, waking frequently to check on the other youth's condition, and seeing to it he was comfortable and offered water and broth at frequent intervals. When Orominion awoke and rose to visit the area designated for relieving oneself, he saw through the tent's flaps that Peredhrion now sat by the cot, his hand resting on the other youth's breast, attending to the beating of Nardir's heart, and singing softly to himself. Somehow Orominion found all of this proper and comforting, and as he slept he dreamt of the first rising of Eärendil, back in the depths of time.


	5. Mutual Knowledge

_For Tari for her birthday. Enjoy!_

Mutual Knowledge

The healer who accompanied the patrol led by Iorvas looked up to meet Baerdion's eyes. "You say that he was wounded three days ago?" he asked, indicating Nardir, who sat patiently on a fallen tree trunk.

"Yes. We found a troop of orcs northwest of Eldar Deep. Nardir was the one who was worst wounded."

"Who closed the wound?"

"Peredhrion, there," Baerdion answered, indicating where said young Man stood near the horses, speaking with Varadorn.

"An Elf? Why would an Elf ride with your patrol? Was he trained in healing by Lord Elrond, then?"

At that moment, apparently feeling the healer's gaze upon him, Peredhrion turned, and the healer saw his face and found his attention fastening upon the youth's eyes. He went pale with shock, and then flushed. Peredhrion turned back to his companion, and the healer returned his own attention to Baerdion.

Baerdion gave an odd smile of mixed satisfaction and warning. "Yes, he has been fully trained by Lord Elrond and his people. But, as you can see, he is no Elf, and he wished to return to our people in this manner. His father died, you will remember, when he was little more than a babe, only just beginning to walk and speak."

"We thought he was dead!" whispered the healer.

Baerdion's smile widened as he returned in extremely soft tones, "As you can see, he did not die. How better to protect him from the Enemy than to allow almost all to think him dead?"

"And he exhibits the King's Gifts?" came the whispered question. Not waiting for a reply, the healer shook his head with amazement. "When did this come to be?"

"On Midsummer Day they brought him to Amon Sûl to see him returned. He was as you see him now. Lady Ivorwen has accepted him, but his grandfather still questions how it was that he was not advised the child lived after all."

The healer gave another glance at the young Man in question. "I am not surprised at his confusion," he commented dryly. "And we missed this news because we were out on patrol."

"Even so. As for Nardir there, do you believe he should return to his parents' home?"

With a sigh, the healer returned his attention to the youth he'd examined. "Perhaps he should return home, but his recovery is already well advanced. There is no question that—Peredhrion there is a skilled healer who has learned well from Elrond and his people. We shall undoubtedly all rejoice to have him among us in the near future. But I believe I shall leave the decision as to whether this one returns home to Nardir himself. He shall most likely be fit for full duty within two weeks if the healing continues as it has gone so far, and I doubt he wishes to need his training patrol to start again from the beginning."

The healer glanced again at Peredhrion. "How is he as a warrior? Is he such as will do well as a captain of Men?"

"He won the right to ride on patrol with the sons of Elrond by besting one of the two of them in sparring at the age of fifteen. What does that tell you? And I watched him fighting the orcs the other day—to watch him with a sword is to watch a master of the dance of death. Nor is he given to airs. He dresses as an Elf because this is how he has seen warriors dress all of his life, and he knows no other way. I tell you, he has earned those warriors braids fairly."

"But if he is to become who he is meant to be, he must identify with our people, not the Elves, not even the Elves of Rivendell."

"Yes, you are right. But it must be his own choice to do so. We cannot impose that decision upon him."

Nardir chose to remain with the patrol, and only when the other group was far out of sight of Malvegern's trainees did the healer reveal to Iorvas what he'd seen of the new recruit to the Rangers come from Elrond's hidden valley.

The feeling of Hope Returning and Coming to Be was spreading even now amongst the Northern Dúnedain.

_"Was it hard to grow up amongst Elves?"_

_ "Did they treat you badly because you are a Man rather than an Elf?"_

_ "Do they eat different things than we do?"_

_ "When did you realize you are different from the Elves?"_

_ "Is it true that Elves don't sleep as Men do?"_

Malvegern and Baerdion were amused by the questions they heard being put to Peredhrion, and often they were as curious as were the other youths as to what he might answer.

"Did Lord Elrond marry your mother?"

Peredhrion appeared shocked at the very idea of that one. "Marry my _naneth_? But why? He is already married, although his wife has departed over the Sea to Elvenhome for healing. She was very badly hurt, you know."

"Then why did he not go with her?"

Peredhrion shrugged. "He believes he is intended to stay here in the Mortal Lands until Sauron is finally vanquished. He will not leave until that day comes. Sauron has cost too many he has loved."

That appeared to give the other trainees a good deal to think on, not to mention the thoughts entertained by their mentors.

One night as they sat in their camp, having heard one of the tales that Peredhrion had to tell, a story he said was commonly told in the Hall of Fire in Elrond's House, Berevrion asked, "What did you do when you were a little boy? Did you play with the Elves' children?"

Peredhrion shook his head, his warriors braids swinging, his expression rather sad. "There have been no children born in the vale of Imladris for over six hundred years as Men count time. Elves must agree for a child to be conceived, and it can cost the father as much as the mother for the child to come to its birth, for the child draws as much upon the spirit of its father as it does the spirit and body of the mother. There are few children conceived in times of uncertainty, not when the attention of those who would be parents must needs be focused on the welfare of their people and homes.

"Master Elrond's sons would play with me often enough when they were within the valley, much, I imagine, as do much older brothers or uncles of mortal children, teaching me to follow a trail and to look at all that was around me, and sometimes teaching me to use my imagination to plan how I would sneak past a dragon or hunt fabulous beasts. But they were often away upon patrol or seeking out orcs and brigands who haunt the mountain passes or trolls come down from the Ettenmoors. So, when I must play by myself I would pretend I had brothers, and together we would hunt great cats in the gardens or plan raids on pirates' fortresses. Sometimes when I was very small I would pretend to save the princess in the great tower, and my _nana_ would be the princess and perhaps Elladan would be the wicked enchanter who held her prisoner. But I had little time to play at such things once I was old enough for lessons. I learned something, it seemed, from each and every Elf within the valley. I began practicing with a wooden sword when I was still very small, learning how to carry it, how to draw and sheathe it, and how to hold it properly, what stances I must use. I must learn to read and to write, and to understand what it was that I read. I must learn how to keep proper records. I learned how to care for my pony from those who kept the stable, and how to care for my cat from Elladan and Elrohir. I learned to work with the hunting hounds from those who worked in the kennel, and how to fly a hawk from those who saw to the mews. I began to study how to care for common wounds from the first time I chanced upon the Healing Wing, and often worked in the healers' garden alongside m-Master Elrond himself and the other healers, learning to tell the plants and how to care for them, and how to harvest and prepare each properly for use by the cooks or with those who might come to us for healing.

"Some days I would work in the scriptorium, copying texts and books or learning to conserve scrolls of lore. Other days I would help those who worked the farmlands, laboring alongside those who planted and harvested the grains and foods we depended upon. I learned to hunt, and how to serve at table. I learned the histories of the Elves, Men, and Dwarves who have dwelt in Middle Earth. I learned how to construct and string a harp, although I do not have one now, and how to blow upon the pipes. Sometimes I was expected to sing or to chant rhymes of lore in the Hall of Fire in the evenings, or to play with other musicians. But my best musical skill lies in my singing rather than skill with any instrument. My mother wished for me to learn to dance, but there seemed not to be time for that, considering how much else there was to learn and master."

The young Men all appeared to be impressed by the rigors of Peredhrion's education. So when he asked Berevrion how he spent his time as a child, the younger trainee shrugged as if embarrassed to say, "I had lessons, yes; and I was required to study Sindarin as well as Westron and Adûnaic. But it seemed mostly I must see to those chores assigned to me. I worked in the stables and the herding grounds with the horses and ponies alongside my father and brothers and sisters. I learned to ride when I was perhaps five years old. My pony was named Pererohir—it was named by my older brother, and I fear Beregil had no true imagination when it came to naming any beast."

"Was it the front or rear half of the creature you rode?" jested Finwë.

Berevrion gave him a wry smile before continuing, "We also work in the fields, and mostly my sisters keep the gardens. It was my job primarily to bring in wood for the fires, and Beregil was tasked with seeing to it that there was always fresh water on hand. When we have free time we often play kick-the-ball in the fields where we have no crops growing. But we always have to watch for enemies, who come mostly from the north, from the remnants of Angmar. Part of the reason I was chosen to go upon this mission was because the last time they came I managed to kill two of the raiders with my bow, after they slew Beregil."

The other youths gave whistles and words of compassion and appreciation. Death of friends and family from raids by orcs, trolls, and evil Men were too common an occurrence in the lives of them all.

Peredhrion laid a hand on the shoulder of his younger companion, and they nodded their mutual recognition of the types of loss they had in common, including the loss of innocence at a young age.

After several minutes of quiet thought throughout the group, Malvegern cleared his throat. "We shall be riding out early, perhaps just before dawn. You had best see to it that you are all well prepared for the morrow's needs. Dirigil and Orominion, see to it that you have new laces in your boots—it will not do to have to stop tomorrow should the worn ones each of you had to knot together today break."

Dirigil smiled, "I shall do so right away."

Orominion merely shrugged, although he had trouble hiding a smirk. It was not long before the source of that smirk became obvious to all, when Dirigil, going through his pack, held up a single cord and cried out, "Someone has taken one of my spare laces!"

Most of the young Men had leather laces that were undyed, and certainly earlier in the day when Orominion's bootlace broke his had been similarly tan. The lace Dirigil held up was dyed black, however, while now Orominion wore one lace that was light brown and the other dark as an orc's blood. "Why did you take one of my laces?" Dirigil demanded.

"You only broke one of yours today, and I didn't have a spare," Orominion said as if that explained all.

Baerdion, Malvegern, and Túrin exchanged despairing glances. "It may be true," Malvegern noted, "he does not need two new laces at this point, but that does not give you the right to take one of his without asking. And why did you not bring extra laces? Was it not written on the letter your parents received when you were accepted to this patrol that you should be so equipped?"

Orominion's smirk disappeared, his expression now sullen. "We are not wealthy, those in my family. It took a good deal to get me the equipment I carry. There was nothing left over for extra laces."

Túrin sighed. "Then you ought to have applied to me rather than to go into someone else's pack, Orominion. I carry such things, you should realize. I am, after all, quartermaster for this patrol."

Orominion gave an elaborate shrug and turned away. It was the first time it was noticed that Orominion freely "borrowed" from his fellows and thought nothing of the practice.

Two days later a gang of six ruffians was found attacking a farm, and the recruits quickly had them captured. For two days they quick-marched their prisoners until they came to one of the villages inhabited by the Dúnedain, where they happily released the lawless Men into the keeping of the locals, who would see them brought before Lord Halbaleg for judgment. That night as the recruits rested around their campfire the discussion turned to what might have happened had the ruffians been more willing to fight them.

"I don't know if I could have borne to kill a Man," one of the eighteen-year-olds said.

Finwë asked, "How many besides Berevrion have had to fight Men?"

Six hands went up. Peredhrion did not raise his. One of those who raised his hand was Varadorn.

Finwë continued, "How many have seen a Man die?"

Almost everyone raised his hand this time. Only Bregorn and two of the eighteen-year-olds had been spared the experience. They looked at Peredhrion, and Finwë asked, "When did you see a Man die?"

"The first time it was a woman. The sons of Elrond were riding with the Dúnedain a few years ago, and as the patrol passed a farmstead not far east of Amon Sûl they were hailed by the farmer, who asked if there was a healer amongst them. His wife had given birth to a son, but by nightfall the child died in obvious pain, and by the next evening his wife also was very ill, and the midwife had told him there was nothing further she could do.

"Elladan and Elrohir did what they could for her, but agreed that there was little chance for her to survive, although they hoped that perhaps their father could do more. They took turns carrying her before them as they returned to the Last Homely House, and she was brought to the Healers Wing. But all that could be done for her by then was to ease her pain that she might die more comfortably—it was too late to undo the damage done. M-Master Elrond said that it was the fault of the midwife, who had not cleansed her hands, her instruments, or the bedding properly, and the womb became infected. The babe was infected as it was born and thus could not live without special treatment that the midwife could not give it, and now the infection had spread throughout the mother's body and she had not the strength any longer to recover.

"Another time one of the Elves found a wounded Man who had been set upon by highwaymen and left for dead upon the East Road. He had been struck repeatedly upon the head, and again it had been too long since he was injured for him to recover. He did finally wake and spoke with me, and the sons of Elrond were able to find those who attacked him and brought them before our—their father, who saw them properly punished. I held his hand as he quitted the body, and I was glad that he did not appear to be afraid."

He was quiet for a time before adding, "I have also seen Elves in our patrols die twice. One was cut off by a number of orcs who set upon him in particular, while another was taken by an arrow to his chest that severed the great arteries. Each time we took great vengeance upon the orcs who beset us."

"So you have killed orcs before this patrol."

"Yes." There was no change in his expression to indicate whether he felt good or bad or indifferent about killing orcs—the feeling the others got was that it was simply something that had needed doing at the moment, so he and those with him had merely done what was necessary.

Orominion's face twisted. "I have no love of orcs, and will kill all I ever encounter."

Peredhrion shrugged. "To kill is an evil in itself, but is too oft necessary to save what is worth seeing preserved. And certainly orcs were twisted to love destruction more than any other thing." He met Orominion's eyes and gave a shrug of his shoulders. "I know that someday I must face Men in battle, and I do not look forward to that day. But, when Men take on the nature of orcs…." He let the sentence go unfinished.

Malvegern said quietly, "When the time comes, I am certain that you will discern rightly whether or not the Men you face are intent on killing you and those you are bound to protect and that you will choose to do what is necessary. But certainly you are right-sometimes Men indeed do take on the nature of orcs, and because they have chosen destruction they must be stopped however it must be done. But it does not do to dwell on what has not happened as yet, save to be prepared when it confronts one; and when the time does come that you must fight other Men, you will need to accept that since it was inevitable that such things will happen from time to time, you cannot hold guilt to yourself, but must go on with life as it ought to be lived while it is yet with you."

Peredhrion gave a slight nod, a small, sad smile lightening his expression. "When that day comes, it will come," he responded.

So saying, he rose from the group, beckoned Nardir to him, and set about checking the state of healing of his wound. Berevrion set himself to washing his stockings, something he did whenever he had the chance to do so, having told the others that his mother had enjoined him to watch the health of his feet in especial, and the others prepared for the night's rest.

In the morning one of the pairs of stockings Berevrion had so carefully cleaned was missing, and were found on Orominion's feet, Orominion having neglected to realize his own needed to be cleaned. The young Man said that he was sorry, but somehow the others were not convinced he truly meant it.


	6. Danger

_For IgnobleBard and LaPrime's birthdays._

Danger

Baerdion shook his head as he considered the trainee standing before him. "You cannot continue to _borrow_ other people's things, Orominion. This time it was all I could do to restrain Finwë from blacking your eye at the very least after you took his spare shirt."

"Why does it bother them so?" the young Man demanded. "It does not bother my brothers when I borrow from them!"

Baerdion's brow rose. "Is this indeed how it is with your family, Orominion? I know that my older brother took great exception to me even touching anything that he thought of as his."

Shaking his head, Orominion ignored what their mentor said. "And are we not to consider ourselves brothers-in-arms? Why do they begrudge sharing with those who have less than they?"

"Less than they?" the Man returned, not certain he'd heard aright. "But I have counted at least five shirts that you brought with you, while Finwë has but three with him. It appears that if your own things are not fit to wear it is then that other people are judged to have more than you."

At that moment Nardir returned to the encampment at a run. "To the east!" he gasped. "There is a dust cloud to our east!"

Orominion was forgotten as Turin hurried over to hear the youth's news. "A cloud of dust?" the quartermaster asked. "And where is Peredhrion?"

"He remained behind so as to keep an eye on their movement. He does not believe it is orcs, as they will not usually move when the Sun is bright. But it may be either a party of traders or of raiders. He says that the cloud of dust appears to be due to the movement of wagons."

Baerdion and Túrin exchanged looks. "Wagons are not used by orcs," Baerdion said, "and are seldom used by Elves, so again this indicates that those who come this way are more likely Men, or possibly Dwarves. But Dwarves seldom leave proper roads with their wagons, and we are far from the East Road here. We will be cautious, then." He sent Túrin off to warn Malvegern, and gathered the young recruits together to advise them regarding the approaching wagons.

"Not Dwarves," Finwë murmured to Orominion and Varadorn, who crouched beside him in the brushy borders to the faint track the Men approaching them used.

"Not from the Breelands, either," Varadorn whispered, his expression grim.

The whisper was passed down the line from Túrin, "Dunlendings!" All of the recruits in this group straightened, and most touched the hilts of their swords to assure themselves that their weapons could be easily drawn when the time came. The Men of Dunland had a reputation for being fierce enough in a fight, although they were usually not as well trained in swordcraft as were the warriors of the Dúnedain.

There was the sound of cursing from down where Túrin knelt, and now the word was passed from youth to youth, "Beware—that is a power bow. They are not particularly accurate from a distance, but they can be deadly."

There were eight mounted Men and two on the wagon's bench. At least one of the riders held what appeared to most of the recruits to be a child-sized bow mounted somehow upon a stick, as did the one sitting next to the wagon's driver. Most of the young warriors in training were now peering at the odd weapons, hoping to make sense of their configuration before the strange Men came close enough to pose a real threat to them.

One of the eighteen-year-olds commented in a low voice, "I wonder if Peredhrion has seen such weapons before?"

Nardir replied, "I suppose we shall soon learn the answer to that."

There was a short shared laugh amongst them, one last release of the tension building within them as the Dunlendings came closer.

Suddenly Baerdion stepped out of the trees opposite Nardir, his longbow ready and an arrow nocked to the string. "Hold!" he commanded, his voice ringing in the clear air.

The rider with the strange bow raised it, laying a odd looking dart upon the stick by which he held it, but before he could do more he let go of his weapon, an arrow having transfixed his shoulder. When another arrow struck the wooden bench of the wagon by his hand, the second archer cried out in surprise, and his bow also fell to the ground. Its dart, however, flew faster than the young Dúnedain had expected, and sank its point deeply into the trunk of the tree behind which Berevrion crouched. Had it hit him….

"Hold!" Baerdion said once more, following it with the same command in several different languages. The horses pulling the wagon bucked and tried vainly to rear, at which Berevrion ran forward to capture the headgear of the animal closest to him to calm it.

There were too many arrows aimed their way for the intruders to ignore, and soon all had their hands raised, and Túrin and Malvegern went forward to see them all disarmed and forced to dismount. Peredhrion and Finwë were set to seeing the arrow wound suffered by the one Man dealt with, and soon he found himself, with his arm bound across his chest, sitting on a log alongside his fellows while the young defenders went through the contents of the wagon.

"There are many sacks of grain under a tarp toward the front, and weapons in the back," Nardir reported to their mentors. "And two barrels of what appears to be smoked pork."

"The grain is barley and wheat," added Bregorn.

"Neither of which grows easily in the hills of Dunland," Malvegern commented. "Are they trading weapons for grain, I wonder?" His tone of voice made it clear he suspected that the weapons were indeed used in obtaining the grain, but not in trade.

"But these are but boys!" one of their captives commented in heavily accented Westron. "We ought to have been able to take them easily!"

Baerdion gave a feral smile. "These may be young, but they are swiftly becoming seasoned, and more than one has fought successfully against enemies before coming on this patrol. You would not find any of them as easy to overcome as you appear to believe, my friend."

The Dunlending spat. "I am no friend to you or yours," he growled.

"Nor to the farmer from whom you took this, I suspect," Peredhrion said, raising a particularly fine sickle he'd found amongst the weapons.

"Nor his wife, from whom you most likely took these," Túrin added grimly, pulling from a small bag he'd found beneath the wagon seat a pair of gold earrings, perhaps once the only treasure owned by the wife of a Man who'd taken land in the wild to farm.

They bound the intruders and aided most to mount their own horses, only to tie their feet together under their steeds' barrels. With the wounded Man and the former driver loaded in the wagon and the others each on leading strings behind one of their captors, they headed toward the site where they were to rendezvous with another patrol within the next two days. As they rode the youths took turns examining the power bows taken from the Dunlendings, taking note of the manner in which the bows were mounted upon their stocks and the way in which strings were winched back to give the darts used in them greater force once the strings were loosed.

"They are ugly weapons," Dirigil commented, "but I suspect that they are most effective."

"They can easily pierce a Man's skull, or that of a troll, even," affirmed Malvegern. "But they are not particularly accurate over any real distance. Had Berevrion been struck by the one dart that was loosed in our attack on them it is likely it would have gone clear through his body. As it was, we did not bother to recover it from the tree, as it is buried too deeply to easily remove, and it would be useless to try to use it again." He turned to look more closely at Peredhrion as they rode. "Have you had the chance to see such things before, growing up as you have in Lord Elrond's halls?"

"I have seen a few, and was permitted to handle one recently taken from Men routed in Rhudaur," he answered. "Elladan and Elrohir described them much as you have. I was allowed to fire the weapon to get the feel for it, but they did not allow me to pull the string to its greatest tension, for they said that it could easily be pulled apart by its own stresses. They told me that it was not the best of such weapons they had ever taken."

"It is good that at least one of you has had the chance to handle such things, and the Twins are correct as always in their evaluation of the power bows. Know this—the more complicated the weapon, the more easily it can break down during use, and the greater the danger it poses to its own wielder should it do so."

This was advice the young Men were to remember always, and Halbarad saw that his unacknowledged cousin was nodding as he filed the information away in his mind to ponder further when time allowed.


	7. The Demands of Seniority

The Demands of Seniority

Halbaleg was sitting in his wife's solar, reading to her and their daughter, when his second son, Halladan, entered and leaned down to report, "I am sorry to interrupt you, Papa, but Grandfather Dírhael has arrived and is pausing only to visit the water closet before he joins you and Mama."

The Steward of the Northern Dúnedain felt his jaw tighten. His father had not been pleased to learn that he had been denied the knowledge that his daughter's son Aragorn had indeed survived the illness most had believed had left him dead when he was so very young, only days after word came that the child's father had been slain by orcs. For years he had believed that his daughter had been so overborne by the double grief of the deaths of both her husband and her child that she had fled life among her own people so as to avoid reminders of her terrible loss. Now he realized that it had all been a ruse, and no matter how needful that artifice might have been in order to protect the boy, Dírhael felt as if he had been needlessly deprived of information that was due to him both as the child's grandfather and as one of the patriarchs of their people.

Halbaleg slipped the ribbon marker into the book to mark his place and set the volume on the small table beside his chair. He rubbed at his temple. It was not going to be an easy interview, he knew. However he might sympathize with his father, there simply had been no other choice at the time. Catching his wife Anneth's concerned gaze upon him, he gave her a wry smile. "You had perhaps best not linger long, beloved," he murmured, to which she nodded.

Then Dírhael was entering the solar, and Halbaleg, his wife and their daughter all rose to greet him.

"_Daeradar_!" Eliessë said, running to him and throwing her arms about his waist. "Where is _Daernana_?"

"She went to Fornost with your uncle Sedras. They intend to see it made habitable once more. And since when do you greet me in Sindarin, child?"

She smiled up at him ingenuously. "Peredhrion speaks Sindarin, and it sounds so elegant! Don't you like Sindarin, Grandpapa?"

Dírhael gave his son a questioning look. _"Peredhrion?"_ he asked.

Halbaleg shrugged. "It is what he chooses to call himself for now, now while he learns about our people."

Eliessë tugged at her grandfather's sleeve, wanting to draw his attention. "Don't you like it when I speak Sindarin, Grandpapa? Peredhrion says I have a lovely accent."

Anneth, ignoring her daughter, was demanding, "Is it truly safe for Mother Ivorwen to go so far, all the way to the ruined fortress? What if raiders come south from Angmar? We don't need Fornost reopened, surely?"

With an almost desperate laugh, Dírhael focused on his son's wife first. "After the heavy drubbing the forces of Angmar received at our hands last fall, it is unlikely that they will seek to attack us now, Anneth, and particularly not so far west of the Angle. I assure you that Ivorwen and your brother and those with them will be safe enough—for now, at least.

"As for you, granddaughter, I must say that I, too, find your accent pleasant when you speak Sindarin, and I am proud that you are attending to your studies so closely. However, I need to speak with your father and would appreciate it if you would please leave us for the moment. We will send for you when we are done with our talk, and you and I will speak in Sindarin for the rest of the evening if it should please you."

Only half mollified, the girl left the room, followed by Halladan at a nod from their father.

Dírhael did not have a chance to speak before Anneth again was importuning him. "But why is there a sudden interest in doing reconstruction at Fornost, Father Dírhael?"

He sighed as he looked into her eyes. "_He_ has come back to us, Anneth. _He _has returned with all of his promise. Shall we not now do what we can to prepare for the return of the King to that estate? If all goes as we pray that it will, the Kingdom of Arnor will be restored, and he shall be King of the South Kingdom as well. Arnor and Gondor shall once again be united under one rule as had been intended by our great-fathers, Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion. Are we to wait until all of the prophecies are fulfilled, and leave him with nothing of worth here in the north for him to claim as his kingdom?"

She looked down. "Gilraen has allowed her son to return to us, yes. But," she said more challengingly, meeting his eyes directly, "he is not King yet and may not come to that estate for many years—_if_ the prophecies are indeed fulfilled. Our enemies are many, and come against us from all sides. He, too, may not live more than a few years before he dies as did his father and grandfather before him, having lived only as our Chieftain as has been true of so many generations of the Heirs to Isildur. Can we afford to restore old ruins when our communities are few and so often vulnerable to destruction by orcs and other enemies?"

It was her husband who answered her rather than his father. "It is for this reason, to prove to himself and our people that he can meet our needs to protect and lead us, that he has gone on the training patrol with the others learning to serve as our warriors and guardians. We already receive word that he is the warrior that he was proclaimed by Elrond's son, and that he is winning the respect of the other recruits as a result of his skills with both weapons and with the healer's knife. The healer with Iorvas's patrol has praised him for the way in which he has dealt with what could have been a crippling wound to one of his comrades."

Dírhael was searching his face. "Then—then he has already begun to show forth the King's gift of healing?"

"Yes, Papa, he shows the King's gift of healing. Young Nardir took a serious wound to his shoulder, but was already far upon the path to recovery when he was seen by Lendiras. Lendiras left Nardir with the patrol, considering that he showed such renewed strength. But he says that without the services of Peredhrion that Nardir would have most likely lost the arm completely, or at the very least it would have been almost totally useless to him. And others have spoken of how much care he has shown to all of them for their wellbeing."

Dírhael was smiling. "Then perhaps he shall be as the prophecies have foretold, and the two kingdoms shall be reunited!" His gaze sharpened. "But Halbarad also shows a talent toward healing. It is small, I know-"

Halbaleg gave a wry smile. "Many within what remains of the North Kingdom show some remnants of the King's healing hands, Papa. But what—what Aragorn shows forth is the full gift, and has been properly trained by the teaching of Elrond and his sons. He shall be for us the full healer our Kings ever were."

"Does he show forth any of the other gifts common to the Kings of our people?" Dírhael asked.

"There is no question that he is gifted with languages, for as Elrond's son said when he returned him to us he is fluent in Sindarin, Quenya, Adûnaic, and Westron. According to the report we received from Iorvas, Malvegern told him that Peredhrion does not look down upon the others, but also does not allow them to take undue liberties with him. They were not fully welcoming of him when they learned he was to be as one of them, but they are coming to accept his greater skill in tracking and in anticipating the actions of enemies as being advantageous to them all, and honor him for his abilities as a healer, now that he has proven himself. He does not boast idly, nor does he put himself forward unless directed by Malvegern or Baerdion. He listens to others, and offers honest praise when it is due, and increasingly the others are drawn to listen to him. In short, he indicates he will prove a good leader. And he certainly has proved he has a way with beasts as well, considering the manner in which he has gained mastery over the steed he was given."

"But why did you send him out upon a patrol? We could be teaching him the ways and customs of our people. You saw him upon Amon Sûl—he appears a very Elven warrior, at least until you look into his eyes. But we need him to be a leader of Men, not of Elves."

"He desired to reenter the life of our people in this way, Papa. He argued with all of us—Malvegern, Baerdion, and me—that he needs to find his place first with those who will be his captains when they go out upon the field, with those who will in turn lead those of our people they know best. He does not wish to be introduced back into the remnants of Arnor as the Chieftain with no one certain he is able to serve the Dúnedain as we need to be served."

"Is this Elrond's plan for him, then?" Dírhael demanded.

But Halbaleg was already shaking his head. "No, Papa. He insists that this has been strictly his own decision. He asked his mother how it is that those among our people come to be accepted as adults, and she told them that usually it is after our young Men have either finished an apprenticeship in a craft or they have completed training as Rangers. As he seeks to enter our people, he considers it best that he should do as the other young Men do, and that he should complete a training patrol. He said that he was convinced this was necessary when he learned that his father and both grandfathers had done so in their own youth. So, although he has completed an apprenticeship with the healers of Imladris and has accompanied patrols guarding the vale for the past five years, he still felt it necessary to do what is expected of our other young Men so that none should question that he is capable of protecting our lands and people. After that he is willing to follow at your side and mine to learn more of our ways and the manner in which our people are ruled. Not that he is likely to prove ignorant in matters of rule, having been raised by Lord Elrond."

Dírhael sighed and looked up at the ceiling to the room. "I hope that this proves wise, as it is too late now to go out and bring him back."

"True," agreed his son.

After a moment's additional thought, Dírhael added, "And I hope that the others will not give him too much grief. Do any of them know who he is?"

"Only Halbarad knows of all of the youths. He, Malvegern, Baerdion, and Túrin have all taken an oath not to tell the others who he is. Lendiras only realized his true identity as a result of seeing how swiftly and how well Nardir was recovering from the wound he took. Peredhrion indicated he would admit to his real name and station only when he deemed the others were ready to know."

Dírhael sighed. "The word will be spreading throughout our lands that he is actually alive and has returned to us. It will be ironic, don't you think, if it is those who are with him who realize last who he truly is."

Halbaleg smiled. "Indeed, Papa. Shall we summon the children to return, do you think?"


	8. Three Days' Work

_For the birthdays of Armariel, Ansostuff, Ellyn, Xhebepiv, and Maniac 1, and to honor that of Aragorn son of Arathorn._

Three Days' Work

It was good to be rid of the Dunlendings, all agreed. The patrol that accepted them reported that at least six farms had been raided by this group, and Lord Halbaleg was eager to see them dealt with appropriately. These had broken away from a larger raiding party that had been captured not far south of Amon Sûl, and were apparently seeking to rejoin their fellows when taken by Malvegern's patrol. Each of the young Men under Malvegern's governance was praised by the more experienced Rangers, but all noted that Peredhrion's presence excited surprise and quiet—and private—talk and speculation among the older Men before the two patrols parted company.

Four days later they found themselves outside a newer settlement that a few Dúnedain families were struggling to see grow successfully. A double handful of small timber-framed houses were clustered around a larger, rough-hewn hall within a wall constructed of tree trunks with sharpened tops, each dwelling surrounded by herb and vegetable gardens, with tilled fields outside the walls and a small herd of kine inside a railed fence. Land had been cleared for at least a furlong or two in each direction so that newcomers could be seen approaching and appropriate welcomes could be prepared before they could pose a threat.

Rain had pounded the new settlement, turning the rough road leading to it into a quagmire of black mud. The sky was now clear, but none of their mounts liked the surface underfoot as they neared the gates to the tiny village. Even Peredhrion had to speak to his horse, although none could tell what he said, for it was spoken in Quenya directly into the ear of the creature. Carniaxo flicked his ear back as if listening, then shook his head, his ears flapping audibly for a moment, but he steadied, and his rider patted his neck.

Halbarad, who followed Peredhrion closely on his left flank, tapped the taller youth on the arm and indicated Berevrion, who was closer to the beginning of the column. Berevrion's horse was picking up each hoof in an exaggerated manner, fastidiously shaking off as much mud as it could before stepping forward, its neck arched, snorting with obvious disgust with each step. Nardir, who rode slightly ahead and to the right of Peredhrion, looked back, his freckled face smiling. "Looks as if the horse is trying to dance," he said, amusement clear in his voice.

"Looks as if it's been taking lessons from my older sister Arien," commented one of the other youths, and those near enough to hear all laughed good naturedly.

Men could be seen gathering up on the walkway near the top of the palisade. One of them gestured toward those on the ground, and the gate began to creak open. Obviously they were expected, and welcome to enter the village. Even Berevrion's horse began to move forward more rapidly.

The Man who'd gestured to see the gates opened disappeared from view, and was waiting for them just inside the gates as the troop of young Men reached it. He looked out at them, and fastened his attention on Malvegern. "Well, you have come in good time, Malvegern, Baerdion. Enter and be welcome. The women have been preparing a small feast ever since you were sighted by our outriders three hours since. Ah, Túrin—it is good to see you! Come, you and your recruits. I suspect we will have good use for what aid you can give us on the morrow."

They were brought to the larger structure that served as both a meeting hall and as a sleeping place for visitors to the village. Straw mattresses were stacked in a corner, and there were a number of wooden horses generally used to support trestle tables on either side of the doors, and rough benches against the walls. A small fire blazed in the fire-pit that ran down the center of the room, and they were advised that this would be open to them all during their stay. Several older boys offered to see to the horses, and although a few of the trainees followed Orominion's lead in surrendering their animals to the boys' care, the rest followed Peredhrion, Halbarad, and Berevrion out to settle their own steeds.

One of the village boys was looking Peredhrion up and down surreptitiously as each brushed his charge. At last he said, "My papa says that you are dressed Elf-fashion. Why?"

Peredhrion shrugged and gave a half smile. "I was raised amongst the Elves, and this is how I saw people dress all my life. I find Men's dress to be odd, although I admit I'm now becoming more accustomed to it."

"Why were you raised amongst the Elves?"

The young Man's expression became more thoughtful. "My father was killed when I was very small, and when they came to tell my mother of his death they found that both she and I were very ill. So, the sons of Elrond took us to their father's house so that we might be healed. Afterward we simply did not return. I only learned my father's name in the early spring, and it was decided that I should return to our people to live. My mother intends to return, also, but wished for me to find my own place amongst our own before she follows me."

Berevrion, apparently unnoted by Peredhrion, straightened, his eyes immediately looking toward Halbarad as if asking an unspoken question. Halbarad did his best to remain impassive. It was the first his lord cousin had mentioned about the possible return of his mother to their people.

"What's your name?" the boy asked.

A gentle, endearing smile. "You may call me Peredhrion, as do these others. But as a child amongst the Elves I was called Estel."

The boy's brows rose. "Estel? They named you for the stars?"

Peredhrion laughed. "For the stars? No! In Sindarin and Quenya _estel_ means hope, the hope known not through reason but through the offices of your _f__ëa_, or spirit."

Nardir asked, "But why did they name you _Hope_?"

The older youth shrugged once more. "Perhaps because I lived in spite of that illness, while my father died. The Elves of Imladris appear to have held a good deal of respect for him. But perhaps it was mostly to impress upon my mother that she should not allow herself to fade to follow him betimes. I doubt that she has ever given over mourning his loss to her company. She loved him most dearly—that is plain to all who know her, for all she can barely bring herself to speak of him."

Halbarad let his eyes slide sideways toward Berevrion, who had returned his attention to his horse's mane, but who was still giving little looks at Peredhrion from time to time over his steed's neck. _He's realizing who this truly is,_ Halbarad thought, and returned his own attention to the mud he was picking out of the frog of his horse's near hoof.

All came to the hall for the evening meal, and it did appear to be a feast indeed. While they ate news was shared. The wagonload of Dunlendings they'd captured had been seen by the Men of the village, but had ridden away when they became aware they were being watched and had given no trouble. The harvest last year had been barely adequate for their needs, but they'd been able to trade skins from animals killed and trapped for what stores they'd not been able to produce for themselves. So far things looked better for this year, but only if there wasn't another driving rain such as had been known in the past few days. Another family had joined the village this year, and one child had been born in the past seven months. Traders had brought them three new books, so there was more for the children to study in their lessons.

Peredhrion was listening with interest, and both Malvegern and Baerdion were watching the young Man with smiles of approval, Halbarad noted. He realized that his lord cousin was doing just what they felt their Chieftain should do in his circumstances—listen and learn as well as he could.

Most of the villagers gave the young Men little heed, save, perhaps, to size them up in order to judge just how much help each might prove in the coming days. For the next three days the young Rangers in training were to assist the villagers here in completing projects that would be needed ere the summer waned, for once harvesting began there would be but little time for finishing walls or making certain that the roads would remain passable once the autumn rains came. "And considering how bad the road is now," Finwë confided to his fellows, "just imagine how bad it would be when the weather changes in earnest."

The rest nodded their agreement.

But Peredhrion's dress and stance managed to attract attention once the meal was over and all began to mingle and talk. One of the seventeen-year-olds was a kinsman to the headman of this village, and several who knew him gathered about him to share their greetings—and more than one question posed to him involved a glance or gesture Peredhrion's way. It quickly became obvious to Halbarad that the youth's answers were judged inadequate, and three of that group drew away from the others to carry on a quiet yet spirited discussion of their own. They then descended upon Baerdion, who pointedly refused to answer their questions, finally giving them a low-voiced dismissal that sent them scurrying across the hall. There they were joined by an older lady that Halbarad felt he might have known when he was younger, and after speaking with them for quite some time, she approached the young recruit known to the villagers and spoke a while with him before nodding and bidding him a quiet and restful night.

"Are they ever going to leave us to our rest?" muttered Peredhrion into Halbarad's ear. "I had quite a long watch last night and feel as if I could sleep for a week."

"Are you perhaps feeling as if there were too many people here within the hall?" Halbarad asked.

His cousin gave the slightest of nods of agreement. "I find myself trying to watch each of them, but cannot yet predict where they might move next. There is so much confusion."

"And this is but a small village. Wait until you must deal with a feast in the hall of my father's Keep!"

He noted that Peredhrion gave a barely contained shudder. "I do not know if I am ready for such an event," he said softly.

It was at that moment that the older woman Halbarad had been watching brushed against Peredhrion oh, so gently, then turned in artless apology. "Oh, but please forgive me! I fear I was not looking where my feet were taking me." She stopped as if she were only now aware of whom it was she'd bumped up against. "Oh, but you are the one I am told is called Peredhrion, and that you were raised amongst the Elves of Imladris. Is that true? Oh, but how interesting!"

_Does he realize that this is all but a great show?_ Halbarad wondered.

The woman continued to gush. "I visited Lord Elrond's home many years since, when I was but a girl. I had a growth upon my arm that he removed that it not become the crab sickness. He is indeed a great healer, the greatest of all within Middle Earth, or so it is said."

Peredhrion bent his head politely, responding, "Yes, so I have been told, also."

"And it is told me that he trained you in healing as well?"

On the young Man's nod of assent she continued, "Then I fear I must entreat you to come with me to see my father. He did not come tonight—he says that he cannot bear being around too many people at a time, that it causes his joints to ache the more."

_She knows how to engage his attention,_ Halbarad thought, watching his Lord Cousin's gaze focus.

"Are his joints swollen and distorted?" asked Peredhrion.

"They are beginning to do that," the woman answered. "But mostly in the past few years cold and damp cause them to ache to the point he cannot easily rise to his feet or reach above the height of his shoulders. If you could come, perhaps you could bathe them with an infusion of the King's herb…."

But Peredhrion merely looked blank at that suggestion, obviously not recognizing the herb she'd mentioned.

"No matter," she said. "But if you will please come to him, I would be ever so grateful. Please?"

Peredhrion gave Halbarad a confused look as the woman took possession of his arm and drew him out of the hall. Giving a sigh, Halbarad followed after, making certain his dagger was in place at his belt. If she should prove an enemy, or her purported father….

They walked down the lane to a house on the left that seemed somehow better constructed than the others, and she pushed open the carefully crafted door. "Papa!" she called. "If you can come out, we have a visitor!"

They could hear movement in a room off to the left, and a querulous voice demanding, "Ercassë, why are you bringing guests here at this time of night?" There was a series of uneven thumps, and at last the curtain that closed off the inner room was shoved aside by a wasted hand, and an aged Man emerged, leaning on a stick on both sides.

"Oh, sweet Yavanna," Halbarad muttered under his breath. "It is Lord Iorgil." To his cousin's confused look he added in a low whisper, "He was an advisor to Lord Arador, and he and my _daeradar_ tend to argue—constantly!"

The woman—_Ercassë_—was already speaking to her father. "He lived amongst the Elves, and has been trained as a healer by Lord Elrond himself, Papa. If he can soothe your joints-"

Lord Iorgil was already shifting his attention from his daughter to the two young Men who'd accompanied her to his home. His eyes grew wide, his mouth dropped open, and he paled. "Arador!" he said. It almost sounded like a cry, but with no volume to it. He fumbled sideways to a straight chair that sat there, obviously placed there deliberately to give him a seat when he emerged from what was most likely his private chamber, and dropped heavily into it. "Arador! Brother of my heart!"

Halbarad's cousin's eyes rolled upwards briefly, then looked upon the Man with compassion. "No, Lord Iorgil, I am not your friend. But if I can aid you-"

The old Man's eyes focused, and his color began to return as his mouth snapped shut. "I see," he said, eyeing the taller youth closely. "But it is obvious that word of your death so long ago was—perhaps premature?" He shifted his attention to Halbarad, and sighed. "Welcome, Halbalegion," he said. "Why was I not told of this before? Or," he added thoughtfully as he returned his gaze to Peredhrion, "was this the subject of that meeting called at Amon Sûl at Midsummer? It would appear I should have made more effort to get there."

"There is no way you could have gone so far, Papa!" objected Ercassë. "What with your joints so inflamed, you could not have made it. It would have most likely killed you to make such a journey?"

"As if I'd not made similar journeys daily for years," he growled at her.

Peredhrion stifled a small laugh. "I am certain you did indeed, my lord," he said. "But that was before your joints began to swell and twist, I am certain." He moved to lean forward over the older Man and pressed the back of his hand to Iorgil's brow while examining the Man's face and eyes. "How long since the swelling of the joints began?"

"Definitely healer trained," grunted Iorgil. "Five years and some months ago."

Peredhrion nodded absently as he now examined Iorgil's right hand. "What herbs have they given you for it?"

He asked for the store of herbs in the house to be brought him, and these he examined as closely as he had Iorgil. He opened a packet of parchment and smiled. "Athelas!" he said. "This will help."

"I thought you did not know the King's herb," the woman said, but when he asked, she went off to the lean-to kitchen at the back of the house to bring a kettle of steaming water and a basin and some cloths.

He poured the water into the basin, breathed upon the leaves and rolled them between his hands, softly singing an invocation for healing as he cast them into the water.

Soon he had Iorgil divested of much of his clothing and with blankets pulled about him to ward off any errant breezes. Carefully he bathed each joint, feeling deeply as he checked to see how much it could move without causing the old Man pain or discomfort, then having him lean forward so as to better check the spine and the neck.

While Peredhrion worked, Halbaleg had a good chance to inspect the house in which father and adult daughter lived. It was a sound place and solidly constructed, but the wooden walls were roughly finished so far. The front door had obviously been brought from elsewhere, and when barred would undoubtedly hold up against anyone seeking to force an entrance. He was rather surprised that the cooking hearth was in a separate room, but perhaps that was simply Lord Iorgil's idea of how a house should be arranged. Iorgil had once commanded a keep of his own, but a flood some years ago had left sufficient destruction to the village the keep defended that he had given it over to his son and grandsons, declaring he would not live more comfortably than those of his people who had lost their homes.

And now he was here with some of the villagers who had once depended upon him, seeking with them to start a new community where once a different village had stood. Halbarad wished them luck in their endeavor!

"Halbarad!"

Halbarad was startled to hear his name called, and looked up to meet his cousin's eyes. "Then you haven't gone to sleep on me with your eyes open," commented Peredhrion. "Please go back to the hall and fetch me my red healer's bag from inside my personal bag."

"Yes," Halbarad responded, feeling as if he had indeed just awakened. "I will be right back."

He returned within moments to find both his cousin and Lady Ercassë leaning over Iorgil's back, with the young Man supervising her as she performed a massage on her father's shoulders. "This," Peredhrion explained as Halbarad closed the door after himself, "should allow his shoulders to relax and to feel better after he has been walking with his sticks. It is best done while rubbing a soothing oil or balm into the skin. Ah, Halbarad—thank you so!" He turned to take the bag, and with a casual tug undid the complex knot that held the bag closed. He rummaged through it until he came out with a jar of carved translucent stone stoppered with a wide piece of soft wood. He opened the jar and dipped his fingers into it, then came forward to take over the massage, rubbing the fragrant balm from the jar into the muscles of the old Man's shoulders. Both Halbarad and the lady could see Iorgil's muscles relax, his eyes close and his head tip back with a small smile of pleasure on his face.

"That," he murmured, "is the best my shoulders have felt in months! Do not stop, young Man!"

But in the end Peredhrion did stop and stepped back, turning to now cleanse his hands in the basin in which he had steeped the athelas. Iorgil drew the blanket back around his shoulders as if it were a shawl, now eyeing the younger Man dressed Elf-style thoughtfully. At last the old Man said, "So, Arador's grandson still lives. He and Arathorn would both be proud of you, I think. And where is your mother, Aragorn, Arathorn's son?"

Aragorn shook his hands free of clinging drops. "She remains in the house of Elrond for now. She wished for me to find my own way back into our people's regard."

"I was a friend and counselor to your grandfather, and an advisor to your father as well. Why was I not advised you had not died after all?"

Aragorn turned to look him in the eye. "I am told that only seven who were likely to survive to see me return were advised of that, to stand witness when I was deemed old enough to take up my rightful role as _the Dúnadan_. I was not even allowed to know my true name or heritage until last spring, when at last my foster father told me my father's name and what is expected of me as Chieftain of the northern Dúnedain, as well as why he gave me the child's name of _Estel_. I assure you that you are not alone in having been allowed to think that I had died when still but a child."

Iorgil laughed, and his eyes were alight as he realized, "And your own grandfather did not know it, either? How droll!"

"He appeared most unhappy to realize he had not known that I recovered from the coma into which I'd sunk."

"So, why has it not been told abroad that you have returned to us?"

Peredhrion—_Aragorn_—shrugged. "I asked those who attended the meet at Amon Sûl not to speak of my return abroad until I had finished training as a Ranger amongst those who were to be trained this summer. I wish to earn my place as an adult as is true of these, my fellow future protectors of our people. To simply return as Chieftain of our folk without proving my ability to serve or protect I believe would be an insult to all. And I need to know that I would even wish to serve as Chieftain to those I am intended to lead."

Iorgil examined him again from head to foot, and gave a twisted smile. "Well enough, Arathorn's son. I would not have expected such wisdom from one so young, but if indeed Elrond saw to your raising I can see his wisdom in so advising you."

But the younger Man was shaking his head. "This was my decision, as my—my Lord Elrond would not advise me one way or another, telling me that it was my duty and privilege to determine how I should introduce myself to the northern Dúnedain."

"And your mother did not tell you how you should rejoin our people, either?"

"She answered my questions as to how our young Men proved themselves in the eyes of our people, but gave me little counsel beyond that. And she told me she would give me time to prove myself to the Dúnedain and myself before she returned as well."

The old Man gave a thoughtful nod to his head. "I see that she, too, garnered wisdom in Elrond's house. Well enough. Then, Ercassë and I will also guard your secret until you choose to reveal yourself. You understand that you are bound now, daughter, to keep secret his true identity?"

Her eyes bright with excitement, Ercassë declared, "I so promise, Papa, my Lord Aragorn!"

But the younger Man was shaking his head. "Peredhrion—I am known now as Peredhrion, not yet by the name given me by my parents."

"I will keep my own counsel, Peredhrion," she agreed, speaking the name slowly and carefully.

The others were abed when they returned to the hall, and so Peredhrion and Halbaleg found themselves taking the two beds furthest from the doorway and fresh air. Neither cared overmuch, and the taller youth stowed his healer's bag in his personal satchel and fell onto the straw mattress left for him and was swiftly asleep. A few were yet awake and asked low questions as to what Halbarad and his fellow had been doing, but Halbarad merely shook his head. "Healer's business," he answered shortly, and the questions stopped. Soon the hall was filled with the soft breathing and snores of the assembled youths, all glad they would not be called upon to serve on the night's watch, and Halbarad found himself looking up at the dimly visible rafters, thinking on what his cousin had told first the boy in the stable and then the aged lord in his roughly built house. What must it have been like to learn as Peredhrion—_Aragorn_—had who he was and what was expected of him? To not know his own father's name, much less his own true name, until he was declared a Man grown? How confused his cousin must have felt!

It was past the middle of the night before he went to sleep himself.

For three days the young Men labored alongside the Men of the village to finish a byre for the village's cattle and a large barn intended for the storage of hay and grain, and on the afternoon of the third day they spread gravel over the road and trod upon it and dragged heavy flattened stones along its length to hopefully deter it returning to mud once it rained again. A few had labored upon the log walls where until now there had been gaps.

"Good work!" declared the headman for the village when all was done. "We thank you all for your aid, or I doubt not we would still be laboring once the time for harvest comes."

Many of the young recruits came to Peredhrion to have splinters removed, and Finwë had a scrape cleaned where he'd tumbled forward onto the gravel when it was his turn to drag the great grading stone. They slept one last night in the long wooden hall, and Peredhrion went briefly, Halbarad knew, to see Iorgil once more before they quitted the village.

Berevrion now rode near Peredhrion again, and he showed more deference to the tall, beardless youth than he'd shown before. As for the young Man who was known to those of this village, he kept looking over his shoulder to where Peredhrion's horse carried its master near the end of the column, unsure as to why so many who'd questioned him within the village had seemed quietly excited by the sight of the one who'd been raised amongst the Elves.

Halbarad merely watched the others and smiled to himself. He wondered how long it would be before Aragorn son of Arathorn revealed himself to the rest, but was content for now to allow his cousin to keep his secret as he could.


End file.
